


Sold to the Law

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Ball Squeezing, Branding, Emotional Constipation, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Old Men Learning How To Trust, On The Barricade, Paris Era, Public Humiliation, Road Trips, Saving Each Other, Sharing a Bed, Slavery, Slow Burn, UST, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 95
Words: 260,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6932542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of being returned to Toulon once he reveals the truth in Arras, Valjean is sold to the highest bidder after his second trial.</p>
<p>Javert has never intended to acquire a slave and certainly doesn't own enough money to acquire the infamous Jean Valjean--and yet he suddenly finds himself in possession of the man whom he he tried to unmask for so long.  As the years pass and the balance of power shifts and shifts again, their journey takes them from Montreuil to a convent and even to the barricades of June 1832. But as tension shifts to fraught desire, the ghosts of the past continue to haunt them, especially when Valjean suddenly finds himself responsible for the well-being of a little girl...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  [full size](https://i.imgur.com/XZ9JrAA.jpg)

The exposition took place during the hours before noon. It was not yet hot, but even so it was uncomfortably warm in the sun where Valjean stood bound to the scaffold. They had dragged him there and nailed a sign listing the full amount of his misdeeds to a pole. Then, Jean Valjean was stripped before the greedy eyes of the gathered strangers that had come to watch the proceedings in the marketplace.

Valjean was pale. His hands and legs were shackled, and so he could offer no resistance when rough hands stripped his modesty from him, exposing the scarred body of the convict to the blazing sunlight. Blood shot to his face when they dragged him up the scaffold, his sex dangling soft and vulnerable between his legs as the gathered crowd laughed and stared. Once he was tied to the pole, he could not escape their eyes anymore, and so he closed his own in despair, his shame so heavy that he could barely breathe beneath the weight. It seemed to suffocate him while the heat of mocking eyes burned those secret, vulnerable parts of his body that were now exposed to the sun and the crowd.

Three hours they let him wait like this. Three hours of torment, his flesh soft and small between his legs, trying to cringe away from the crowd's brazen stares. Once, following the jeering of a wealthy bourgeois in the first row, a guard poked him with the cudgel until Valjean shifted in his torment, the cudgel sliding up his thighs but stopping mercifully just in time.

Then the guard laughed, a rough, hoarse sound while Valjean gasped for breath, the muscles of his thighs trembling as he tried to escape the unwanted touch.

"A brute like that for your shop, Brunot? You'd have to geld him," the guard said and laughed again, the cudgel nudging Valjean's balls ungently until he groaned in pain and shame.

Another hour or two, Valjean thought as the murmur of the crowd gained in volume. Another hour or two, and even if he could survive that, then what? There was no more space in the bagne, and the state could fill its coffers with the auctions of recidivists like him. Valjean would be sold like an animal—like a bull to be slaughtered, or beaten, or used in any way his new owner liked.

A shudder ran through him. The guard's cudgel now idly lifted his soft cock as he continued to jest with the bourgeois who'd come for an early look at the wares on offer. All of Valjean's muscles tensed, but even so the chains did not give. Silently, Valjean began to pray that he would be sold to do work in a quarry for a few painful years before exhaustion would kill him.

Then a hand squeezed the muscles of his thigh, and his eyes flew open as he gasped in terror.

It was still the bourgeois who was eyeing him, head bent towards the guard who chuckled again. Valjean panted, his unseeing eyes scanning the crowd, pleading that some farmer might be in need of his labor instead—until his despairing gaze was halted by a familiar figure.

Eyes blazed with fury from the shadows beneath a hat. Ferocious whiskers framed a face that stared at him with barely contained outrage—and another emotion. Something in his gaze made Valjean tremble, even though now the bourgeois released him to move back into the crowd. Instead, he was pinned in place by the weight of that gaze as securely as a mouse is pinned by the cat's paw.

It was Javert. Javert had traveled all the way from Montreuil to his trial by the Court of Assizes of the Var—and now Javert would watch as he was branded and sold.

At that moment, this seemed to him an even greater humiliation than the guard's touches. Javert's gaze was burning straight into his soul as he stood before him, helpless and utterly exposed to those eyes which had always watched with suspicion before. And now Valjean no longer had the protection of his office, which had been the only thing that had held back Javert's derision in Montreuil.

The spectacle went on for another hour. Valjean continued to suffer in the heat, exposed on the scaffold to hungry eyes and curious touches alike, for now several men interested in making a purchase had come forward. Next to the guard, an official stood, one of the town's magistrates with a ledger in his hand, preparing for the auction.

“You can work him hard for a few years yet,” he pointed out when an old farmer came forward.

Valjean tried to swallow the shame that filled his stomach with bitterness when the man inspected his bare body, bony fingers squeezing his thighs and arms.

“A hard worker, eh?” he said and peered curiously at Valjean's chest. “But my wife won't let me buy one of them brutes from the bagne. Said she couldn't sleep with such a beast on the farm.”

“He's a dangerous man. Four escape attempts from Toulon; I would be afraid for your safety, monsieur,” a familiar voice said.

Valjean, who had squeezed his eyes shut in humiliation, now opened them again—only to meet the contemptuous eyes of Javert, who had joined the men in front of him.

“No; you can't put one of these onto a farm. He deserves the double chain,” Javert muttered.

Valjean was breathing shallowly, wishing desperately that he could escape the glare that burned through him, like a stab straight into his heart. But there was nowhere to hide for him. All of his body was on display for the crowd, and in Javert's eyes there was a gleam of satisfaction at seeing him finally reduced to this state once more.

“Yes, yes, but there's no more space in Toulon for the likes of him,” the magistrate pointed out, disinterested eyes sliding down Valjean's body. “In the end, surely it doesn't matter where he is chained. As long as public safety is maintained, of course.”

“Have him gelded,” the guard suggested, his cudgel once more prodding at Valjean's exposed genitals.

Pain and fear ran through Valjean with a jolt of pure terror. Instinct made all of his body arch, muscles bulging and tendons tense as steel ropes as he strained against the chains that held him—and then a large hand clenched around his balls.

Valjean froze, a tormented cry stuck in his throat at the violation of the touch. He panted, sweat dripping down his helpless body as the fingers clenched around his balls in warning until a tormented sound escaped him. His head fell back against the post in pained surrender.

Javert was staring into his eyes once more, and Valjean could not look away, even as he trembled at the touch.

“Yes. I wager that this is where much of the problem lies,” Javert said with terrible contentment. His fingers probed at his balls in their pouch until Valjean groaned with discomfort and fear, sweating in terror as the guard and the bourgeois leaned closer to watch.

“Look at him. Tried and sentenced and chained, and still he wants to fight. But this time, your brutish strength won't avail you,” Javert said, teeth bared as he finally released Valjean and took a step back. “This time, justice will finally be served.”

Valjean panted, pale despite the glare of the sun. How much more of this torment was there to bear?

Two further interested men came forward. Each insisted on prodding him like a horse they were about to buy, squeezing his muscles, inspecting his teeth—and all the while, Valjean felt Javert's glare on him, those burning eyes that seemed to take a horrible satisfaction in his fate.

“I don't think I can afford all that,” the old farmer said in resignation. “Not if I have to bid against Brunot. And then, to pay a doctor to cut him! And what if the wound festers and I lose my investment!”

Valjean trembled at his post. To spend what remained of his life working a farm would be a blessing—who knew what horrors would await at the hands of the bourgeois, or the rough-looking men who had taken such interest in his muscles?

“There is no need for that,” he said softly, breathing shallowly as cold sweat ran down his back. “I am... I am no danger to you in that regard. I swear it.”

The guard chuckled, but even so the farmer shook his head with a disappointed sigh and vanished back into the crowd.

Javert's eyes were still staring at him, suspicion and fury warring within them. Valjean felt crushed beneath their weight. Would he truly be sentenced to this greatest humiliation of them all, to have Javert witness his degradation?

With his chest heaving, his body slick with sweat as he suffered beneath the merciless glare of the sun, Valjean was exposed for another hour. There were more touches. Curious men emboldened by the tale of his infamy came forward, but without fail they retreated when they saw the other men who had voiced an interest.

At last, the guard stepped forward, using his cudgel to make space in front of Valjean. The magistrate climbed the scaffold to stand next to him, ledger in hand and an imperious expression on his face. Javert's eyes were still watching, cold and merciless, and they kept watching as the bidding began.

It was Brunot who made the first bid. The amount was low, and chuckles arose from the audience. Immediately, one of the two men in workman's clothes shouted a higher bid.

Valjean swallowed, raising his head to stare into the sun for a moment until the rays blinded him. Did it truly matter who would prevail? The two men made him uneasy. He had not caught their words, but there had been a furtiveness to their behavior that he recognized while they gave him knowing glances. He did not know what men like these might want with him. Would not the bourgeois be preferable to such disreputable men?

And yet, he could not forget the guard's threat. To be gelded like an animal—the threat still made him tremble. He, who had repented of his sins ever since the Bishop had raised him out of the darkness men like these had consigned him to! Had he not worked hard day and night to show himself worthy of the grace he had been given?

And now he would be treated like a dog once more; now he would not only know the shame of the chain and the red coat, but they'd turn him into something less than human, less than a man, and all because he had desired to spare an innocent this gruesome fate!

“Fifty francs,” the bourgeois said. One of the other bidders uttered a hoarse laugh.

“What do you want with him anyway,” the man said. “You've got no uses for a devil like that! A good citizen like you with a brute like that in the house?”

When Brunot didn't answer, the man laughed again. “Sixty francs,” he then announced. “My brother and me, we'll make good use of you. All that muscle will serve us well.”

Another shudder ran through Valjean. What torment would await him at their hands?

“One hundred,” Brunot announced.

“One hundred and ten,” the other men countered.

From the corner of his eye, Valjean could still see the glare of Javert's eyes. To think that this was the full amount which he had once earned during the nineteen years as a galley-slave; and now this should be the price of what remained of his life... He shuddered in helpless agony.

The magistrate smiled as the bidding began in earnest. Valjean remained silent and motionless, hands flexing every now and then against the chains that held him tied, although the steel did not give.

“One hundred and sixty,” Brunot declared, a satisfied smile spreading across his face when the two men gave him sullen glares but remained silent.

“No other bids?” the magistrate called out. “He's healthy and strong as a bull! You'll get many years of work out of him yet!”

The crowd remained silent. Slowly, Valjean dared to relax in his chains. To work in a bourgeois' shop would not be the worst fate. And perhaps he could still avoid the mutilation. He was a good and hard worker, and there was no danger from him; certainly the man would see that if Valjean had a chance to talk to him...

“Two hundred francs.”

A gasp ran through the crowd. Valjean felt light-headed. Twice the sum of what he had earned with the sweat of his toil in nineteen years in the bagne. A formidable sum for an old convict.

And a formidable sum for an Inspector. Even so, it was Javert who had called out that number, and it was Javert who still stared at him, dark eyes unreadable beneath his hat as everyone else fell silent.


	2. Chapter 2

The heat was oppressive. Javert watched as more sweat slid down Valjean's body, rivulets that gathered between the broad planes of hard muscle, chest hair turned dark with perspiration, a trail of it dripping at last down the shifting muscles of his stomach to vanish in the coarse hair between Valjean's thighs.

 _Two hundred._ He could still feel the weight of that number on his tongue.

An incredible number. His lifetime's savings—no, more than that. More than what he had managed to save up since he had been awarded the position in wealthy Montreuil, where the mayor had made certain that even a police spy did not have to suffer hunger and cold. In Montreuil, Javert had earned enough that it sufficed for a cheap set of rooms and sparse board, and he had still been able to save a few francs every month.

He had not even known what he was saving them for. Had he been in the habit of questioning his actions, he would have argued that to be in the power of a debtor was a fate worse than starving; that he, Javert, who possessed strong arms and good health, would never be at the mercy of another; that it behooved him to save what he could and so make certain that he would never join those drunkards and idlers begging coins from acquaintances or usurers. No, not for him that humiliation of having to ask the landlady to wait another week for the rent!

And yet, in a sudden bout of madness, Javert had just raised his arm and called out the sum of two hundred francs. In the time of one heartbeat he'd spent all of his savings, and more. 

He, Javert, had just for the very first time in his life gone into debt, and all because of a slave named Jean Valjean.

Javert clenched his jaw and shook off the distaste. It could not be helped now. Another year of hard work, and that debt would be paid off. Moreover, he had been left no other chance. Javert was not in the habit of criticizing the workings of the state, and yet it seemed to him there was a gross oversight about to be committed. Jean Valjean, galley-slave and recidivist, to be sold as a slave instead of having to suffer the double chain and the watchful eyes of the guards in the bagne?

No. Valjean surely would have slit the farmer's throat during the first night, and he would have escaped from that bourgeois within the first week. Neither of these people knew what a man like Jean Valjean was capable of.

And for the other bidders... Javert scowled from beneath his hat at one of the two brothers. It seemed to him that he had recognized a tell-tale limp. These two had the air of former galley-slaves, which did not surprise him. Perhaps this had even been Valjean's plan. The man was cunning like a fox, after all. What better solution than to have old friends from the bagne buy his freedom, so that they could then commit more murder and robberies together?

But no more of that now. Jean Valjean would never be a danger again.

With a satisfied smile on his lips, Javert slowly made his way forward through the gathered crowd. The bourgeois had fallen silent.

“I can get another brute for half that sum,” the man muttered when Javert passed him, his face still flushed at the humiliation of having been outbid in front of his acquaintances.

Still, Javert did not care. He was in high spirits; the closer he came, the easier it was to rationalize his decision. For Valjean was watching him, and at last, Javert had the pleasure of seeing that particular terror in his eyes which the sight of him had always inspired in criminals.

“No other offers?” the magistrate asked, looking around at the rapt crowd. A long moment passed. “Sold,” he then said, closing his ledger with deep satisfaction. “For two hundred francs. A formidable price, but I assure you, monsieur, the man's labor is worth it.”

Javert clenched his teeth at the formalities that followed, eager to have it over with. Once the papers were signed, the guard nodded towards where Valjean was still waiting bound to the pole, silent and sweating in the heat.

“He still needs your brand, then we'll release him. Best to keep him bound for that. The barber got knocked out by one of the beasts last month, we don't want—”

“A _J_ ,” Javert said curtly, cutting off the guard's explanation. To his right, a short, balding man had appeared, presumably the barber. At the back of the scaffold Javert now saw a small stove burning. “Surely that's possible?”

When the barber nodded, Javert stepped forward, joining Valjean on the scaffold. He stared into his eyes, noting with satisfaction that the man had ceased his struggles. Valjean's eyes were wide, and Javert took a deep breath, a singular delight rising up within him. So many years of suspicions he had been forced to hide. So many years of watching this man fool them all, willfully tearing down the very pillars upon which society rested.

But no more. No more. Now order was restored, and Jean Valjean looked at him with the same fear of every criminal faced by authority.

“Where do you want it?” the barber asked.

Javert gave Valjean a considering look. His hand shot out and grabbed the convict's chin; he tilted it to the side, then trailed the pad of his thumb down his cheek.

“Cheek's popular for them sold convicts,” the barber said, sweating profusely. “Makes escape harder.”

Javert made a non-committal sound. His thumb pressed a little harder, finding the line of Valjean's cheek bone and following it thoughtfully. Valjean's lips parted slightly, but he did not speak, and after a moment, Javert released him.

He pressed his hand to one of the man's heaving pectorals. “No. I want it here.”

Valjean's chest was covered in copious amounts of hair. Beneath his hand, Javert felt the rapidly beating heart, and he allowed himself another smile. Perhaps it would be smarter to brand the man where it could not be hidden—and yet, Jean Valjean would not escape again. Not now that he was in Javert's power. Instead, he would have him marked where that brutish strength was at its most obvious: that broad chest, the bulging muscles. But Valjean's strength would avail him no more.

The barber muttered something and stepped closer to give Valjean's chest a critical look. When he pulled a blade from his pocket, Javert's jaw clenched at the sight. His hand shot out to grasp the barber's wrist.

“Not that razor,” he said, giving the blunt, nicked blade a derisive look. “Your good razor. And quick now. I'll do it myself.”

With a dark look, the barber pulled another blade from his pocket and handed it over. This one was sharp, the steel gleaming in the light, and probably reserved for customers of less infamy.

A shudder ran through Valjean as Javert pressed the razor to his chest. Javert ignored it; slowly, meticulously, he drew the blade upwards, watching as the sharp blade shaved off the curls that grew here in abundance, revealing the sweat-slick skin beneath. Javert did not cease his work until a patch as large as his spread hand was bared. Beneath his touch, Valjean's heart was racing. The man reeked of sweat and fear. It seemed impossible now to believe that he had fooled them for so long when here, beneath Javert's hands, he was revealed for who he had always been: a convict, a thief, a robber.

“Yes,” Javert said with deep satisfaction and drew back. He handed the barber his blade. “Just like this, if you please.”

The barber went to put the branding iron into the fire. It took a few more minutes until he was satisfied with the heat. During all this time, Valjean did not plead or try to fight. Even so, Javert made certain to keep his eyes on him.

Then the barber returned. The iron in his hand gleamed red. The crowd which had not dispersed, for it knew the entertainment was not over, fell silent in expectation.

Without ceremony, the barber thrust the glowing brand against Valjean's chest. The red-hot _J_ seared his skin over his heart so that the stench of charred flesh filled the air, and a murmur ran through the crowd even as Valjean convulsed in his chains and at last cried out in agony.

A moment later, the barber pulled the iron back. Jean Valjean sagged in his bonds with a broken sob. There, over his heart, a red letter was branded into his skin: the elegant curves of a _J_ , a mark of his new status.

The galley-slave was now a slave in truth, and a profound satisfaction took hold of Javert. He was elated, although he had been forced to spend funds that were not his to spend, and had at least a year of utmost frugality too look forward to.

But where the state had very nearly failed in its duty to keep society safe from such villains, Javert had stepped in. Order was restored. The convict was chained and branded, and Javert would make certain that he could do no further harm.

“What about his balls?” the barber asked.

Javert gave Valjean's genitals another considering look. Gelding him would probably remove much of the criminal's violent urges. And yet. He had weighed those testes in his hand, felt them, heavy and vulnerable. How pleasing it had been to take the mayor by the balls, to squeeze and watch him writhe, when Javert had been forced to follow this false mayor's orders for so long! 

Javert straightened. “No,” he said curtly. “I leave today, and I'll travel quickly. No time for that.”

“Have it done at home,” the guard suggested as the crowd began to slowly disperse, now that the entertainment was over. “A brute like that; you'll be safer with—”

“No,” Valjean interrupted, his voice still rough from pain and tears. “Please. Javert, I swear there is no need—”

Furious, Javert stepped over to him and wrapped his fingers around Valjean's unprotected balls once more, squeezing until Valjean fell silent with a groan of pain. Javert tightened his fingers around the tender globes until tears began to spill from the corners of Valjean's eyes.

“You will address me with respect,” Javert said with cold ferocity. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, monsieur.” Valjean's voice was soft, his chest heaving as he shuddered.

The impertinence of it; to be addressed so by a convict, by a branded villain, in the hearing of the town's electors! Javert's nostrils flared as he prodded his balls once more, taking in their size and Valjean's wince.

“Keep going on like this and I might yet change my mind,” he muttered. “But no more of your games now, Valjean. By God, you will learn to obey. You think you've been spared the galleys? Make no mistake. I know you for who you are. I know what you deserve. And I will make certain that you receive nothing less.”

Breathing heavily, Javert at last took a step back and released Valjean. He waited as the guard unchained Valjean.

A simple iron collar had been fastened around his throat to hold him bound to the pole, and now a chain was hooked into it. Irons were fastened around his wrists once more, holding his hands bound in front of his chest this time. He was allowed to pull on the shoes and the worn trousers which the guards had stripped from his body earlier; the old shirt Valjean slung across his shoulders.

“Come along,” Javert said and gave the chain a pull, watching with satisfaction how Valjean stumbled down from the scaffold. The brand was clearly visible on his chest, a bright red against the pallor of his skin.

Order had finally been restored. The brand and the irons had been in wait for Jean Valjean all along, and he, Javert, had at last returned the man where he belonged.


	3. Chapter 3

The brand had been agony, a terrible heat that seared right through skin and flesh. Even now it pulsed in time to his heartbeat, pain flaring up with every thud of his heart. It was a pain worse than the lash, and Valjean, who had been forced to bear many a torment, found himself praying voicelessly that just like the lash, this torment too would dull in time.

He was breathing shallowly as he followed Javert, concentrating on taking step after step. The sun was still glaring down at him, and his throat was parched. The steady pulse of pain was enough that even the humiliation faded away as he passed by the many curious eyes.

And had he not already survived the worst? Let them watch now. Let them see him humiliated, led away like an animal. It was nothing against the torment of the branding iron pressed to his flesh.

Valjean took a deep breath as they entered the shadows of a narrow alley. Javert did not turn nor speak to him, but Valjean was content to concentrate on following. Having his clothes returned to him was already a blessing. To think of those eyes—those hands!—on him was nearly enough to make him stumble, and to think that it was Javert, Javert who had always watched with suspicion and contempt, who had touched, who had felt him tremble...

With a soft gasp of pain, he tripped over a loose cobblestone. The brand sent a new flare of agony through him that took his breath away for a moment. When he had recovered enough to look up, he found Javert frowning at him.

"Come along," Javert said again with obvious irritation. Another tug on the collar made him sway forward, shame and pain making him flush. Were there even now eyes on them? Were the people of Toulon watching his degradation?

Javert led him around another corner. Here, a linden tree stood, its leaves offering shade to a small square. Next to the old tree, there was a well. Valjean was too exhausted, his throat too parched to speak as he followed Javert towards it, but once Javert motioned impatiently, he pulled up the bucket, then stumbled to his knees in gratitude to cup water in his hands and drink greedily.

He drank and drank. The water was cool and drove away some of the fire in his veins. When he was done, the brand still throbbed with agony, but he no longer felt as light-headed. He could see his surroundings clearly now. There were other people gathered in the small square, an assortment of water-carriers, gossips and idlers who stared at him with open curiosity.

Shaken, Valjean raised his bound hands to wipe the sweat from his brow. Then he hurriedly splashed water onto his face before Javert lost patience with him.

"Thank you," Valjean managed as he stood, the brand aching with every word he spoke.

How bitter those words tasted on his tongue. To imagine that it was the same man whose initial had been burned into his skin whom Valjean now had to thank for allowing him to drink his fill!

And yet, Javert had not been obliged to do so. Valjean remembered well the hard work in the sweltering heat of Toulon. He remembered Javert's warning as well. And yet, what was there that Javert could do to him that would be worse than those nineteen years?

A shudder ran through him as he remembered Javert's touch and his threat. Best not to chance such a thing. He did not think that any pleading would dissuade Javert, should he ever come to the conclusion that Valjean would prove more docile gelded like an animal.

"Hurry up," Javert said, his face grim. "We've quite a journey ahead of us. And don't think to try any of your games with me. I've no patience for your foolishness."

Another tug on the collar made him follow behind Javert once more. It was a little easier to think now. The water had helped, although it did not wash away the shame and the ache of the brand. But he was no longer quite as exposed. And his fate had been decided. He was now the property of Javert - a thought that made him shudder, but at least he knew what awaited him.

Perhaps it would be for the best. If Javert returned him to Montreuil, he was much closer to Montfermeil. The brand would make it more difficult to escape and hide from his pursuers now, but there was the money he had hidden, and there was the matter of Fantine's child at the inn.

There was hope, he told himself as he followed behind Javert, staring at the familiar, intimidating silhouette. There was always hope. No matter what Javert had bought him for, he could endure, as he had always done.

Javert had lodged in a small, simple inn at the outskirts of Toulon. Once more Valjean found himself the recipient of curious eyes and whispers when Javert dragged him into the taproom by the leash. He kept his eyes on the floor, feeling the weight of those glances resting heavily on his shoulders. At last, after Javert had paid for his lodgings and bought some bread and cheese for his journey, they left the inn to retrieve Javert's horse from the stable.

The animal was a tired-looking mare with a broad back, raw-boned but friendly. Her tail swished patiently back and forth to drive away flies as she was saddled and laden with Javert's bags. Valjean watched as they were tied to Javert's saddle. He was nothing more now than just one more possession, trussed up and chained, to be dragged away by Javert and follow wherever he went. The thought was hard to bear, but the burning lines on his chest made that truth impossible to forget.

Then, once Javert had mounted the horse, Valjean found himself pulled forward by the chain once more.

"Follow along," Javert said tersely, holding the chain taut so that Valjean had no choice but to meet his eyes. "You will keep up the pace. Is that understood?"

Valjean swallowed, then nodded. Once more he would be led chained through half of France, and everyone they passed would look at him and see him exposed in his degradation.

"Understood, monsieur," he said, tasting the bitterness of that old shame on his tongue.

Javert, despite his announcement, rode slowly. The horse he must have rented in Montreuil was old, though healthy; her pace was steady, and Valjean had no problems at first to follow behind.

Still, the humiliation of being led away like a bound animal was hard to swallow. When they finally left the town behind, he breathed more freely. The brand on his chest still ached. It rolled through him in waves with every beat of his heart. But with no audience to watch him stumble along behind Javert, it could be borne.

The houses had given way to meadows and fields and orchards. The road they took was dusty, dry soil that had been scorched by the sun. Valjean trudged along in the cloud of dirt that arose where the horse's hooves trod. Every now and then Javert would turn in the saddle, his face expressionless as he stared down at Valjean to make certain that he wasn't trying to flee, and every time Valjean shivered to find himself caught by that stern glare.

What did Javert have in store for him? For what reason had Javert handed over so much coin? Valjean found his thoughts returning to that question again and again, yet he could not find an answer. For a man like Javert, it was an extraordinary sum to spend. Why then had he done it?

Valjean shivered again as he remembered the satisfaction in Javert's voice when he declared that Valjean would learn to obey.

Revenge then. Could it truly be so easy?

And yet, what did he know of Javert? In Montreuil, Valjean had tried to keep his distance as much as possible from Javert, and never spoke more to him than was necessary. Yet all this time, Javert in turn had watched in dark suspicion.

What would Javert do now that he had Valjean in his power? Would the same fate await Valjean in Montreuil that he had suffered in the marketplace of Toulon? Would the people of the town he had tried to govern with kindness now stop to point and laugh as well?

He hunched his shoulders as though he could already fear the eyes devouring his shame.

“Don't dawdle!” Javert gave the chain another yank. The look on his face was grim; he kept a firm grip on the chain until Valjean was forced to walk beside him.

“Don't think you can trick me, Jean Valjean,” Javert muttered, the look on his face satisfied as he looked down on Valjean. “I know all your little games.”

Valjean kept his silence. There was nothing he could say in any case. The sun was still blazing from the sky. Droplets of sweat ran down his back as they marched. Still, he had known worse in Toulon; it was a pain he could suffer, even though the brand still pulsed with burning pain at every step he took.

They stopped once to rest. Valjean wearily fell to his knees in the shade beneath a tree. His feet ached, and so did the brand, but his empty stomach was grateful for the slice of bread Javert handed him with a suspicious look.

Nearby, there was another rivulet. Exhausted and sticky with sweat, Valjean wondered whether Javert would unchain him so that he could bathe, but he did not dare to ask. The memory of Javert's threat and the burning shame of being exposed to the public still burned too brightly within him; it already took what strength remained to him to follow along behind Javert.

Before they continued, he was once more given a chance to drink his fill, cupping the water in his bound hands while Javert watched grimly, as though every concession to Valjean's needs was but an invitation for revolt.

Exhausted, in pain and afraid, Valjean was too tired to even contemplate flight. It was easiest to simply follow along. And had he not been used to the same treatment for many a year? Once they arrived in Montreuil, he would have opportunity enough to find a way to escape from Javert's chains.

For now, he had no choice but to surrender himself to his fate, his mind filled only by thoughts of his aching chest and feet, and the rest that eventually awaited.

Their journey continued for several hours. The sun was already low when they finally reached a small village. The windows of the inn by the road they were traveling were already brightly lit, although Valjean noted with weary relief that the sounds from within were subdued.

Perhaps God would be merciful once more and spare him the torment of drunk revelers gawking at his degradation.

“Sit,” Javert ordered once they had entered the inn.

Under Javert's watchful gaze, Valjean quietly sat down at a small table in a corner, glad to be able to hide his chained hands from view. Yet the chain connected to his collar could not be hidden, and even though Valjean did not dare to look up, he could feel the weight of the curious glances that rested on him.

Javert ordered two bowls of stew, as well as a small room for the night. A boy was sent to water his horse. When the stew was served, Valjean's empty stomach was so grateful for the meal that he silently accepted the humiliation of having to use the spoon with his hands still bound. Tomorrow they would move on; what was he to these people but just another nameless galley-slave being led away?

“Jean Valjean,” Javert said with deep satisfaction when the bowls were empty.

Of course, Valjean should have known that the peace would not be long-lived. Wearily he raised his head to meet Javert's eyes. What could Javert want? The gratification of seeing him humiliated?

He could give Javert that, if that was the price he had to pay for peace.

“Jean Valjean,” Javert said again, smiling with distinctive pleasure as he tasted the name on his tongue. “For so long you have tried to fool me. Do you think I don't know what they say in the town? 'That blackguard of a Javert' they say when I make sure that order is maintained, that we don't have prostitutes making a racket in the streets, that regulations are followed down to the discharge of rain water from gutters. And you, with your smiles and your mercy—did you think I didn't see that every single of your kindnesses was meant as a slap in my face?”

When Valjean remained silent, Javert leaned back in his chair.

“Ah, but no more of that now,” Javert said complacently. “I told you once that it's easy to be kind—the difficulty lies in being just. And now, now you shall learn that lesson.”

The chain had rested abandoned on the floor while they were eating. All of a sudden Javert leaned forward, lips pulled back to reveal his teeth. He grabbed the chain where it was fastened to the collar and used it to pull Valjean forward, until Valjean was so close he could feel the heat of Javert's breath on his face.

Valjean shuddered, his eyes wide, once more helplessly aware of the eyes on him.

“This is justice,” Javert said, eyes blazing with contemptuous satisfaction. “ _This_.” He gave the chain another harsh tug. “And this.” He nodded towards the brand.

“No more fooling people with your lies and your false charity. Everyone can read what you are right here on your skin: a dangerous man. A convict. A slave of the state. And I'll make sure that you will not escape justice this time.”

Satisfied, Javert leaned back, releasing Valjean's collar. Valjean fell back as well, breathing heavily and trying to resist the urge to rub his neck where the iron had bit into his skin.

At Javert's words, the taproom had fallen silent. Valjean could feel the brand burning on his chest, the lines of the _J_ outlined in agony, declaring his shame to all the eyes that were resting on him at this moment. He hunched his shoulders, the motion sending a new throb of pain flaring up from the brand.

The woman who had brought their stew came to clear away the bowls, and in misery Valjean realized that she was doing her best to keep out of his reach, as though he were a wild animal that could attack at any moment.

He swallowed, feeling the heaviness of the iron against his throat as Javert took hold of the chain again.

“This is justice. Never forget it,” Javert repeated, the words harsh while his eyes were filled with a fierce pleasure.

Valjean hung his head. At that moment, the misery weighing down on him seemed unbearable, a greater load than even his exhaustion as he thought of Javert leading him through the streets of Montreuil in triumph.


	4. Chapter 4

The room Javert had been given was sparse and small, but it was clean. A narrow bed stood against the wall. In the corner, there was a stove—unlit, for the summer heat had warmed the room to a nearly uncomfortable degree. The window was open, so that the cool night breeze might give them some relief. It brought with it the cloying scent of lilacs and the croaking of frogs.

In front of the stove, a straw-filled sack had been spread out for Valjean.

Javert, who was still holding the chain in his hand, found himself eyeing that sack with sudden suspicion. Behind him, Valjean was waiting. He could hear his breathing in the quietness of the room and smell his sweat.

A basin and a pitcher of water stood on a small table by the window, and Javert clenched his jaw.

"Wash," he said curtly. "You stink of sweat."

Valjean silently complied. Javert stared at the chain in his hand, and then at the bed. Could he chain Valjean to the bed while the man slept? The chain seemed long enough—and yet, what if the man sought to throttle him in his sleep?

Valjean was washing himself by the window now, lighted by the fading light of the setting sun. It gleamed on hair that was mysteriously whiter than it had been before the man had given himself up. Rivulets of water ran down the strong back, past flexing and bunching muscles as Valjean used the wet cloth, and Javert found himself staring at the lines that marked the strong body. Even now, chained and collared, Jean Valjean exuded a dangerous, brutish strength. It seemed impossible that he had fooled them for so long. Here he was revealed for who he truly was: the sly convict who had tried to escape four times, and had then used his freedom to trick an entire town.

Jean Valjean was a dangerous man indeed, but while others might have been tricked by the man's guile once more, Javert was in no such danger. Purchasing him had been a great expense—yet at the same time, certainly there was no one better suited to the task of keeping this man in line.

While Valjean cleaned sweat and grime from his body, Javert put his sparse belongings down by the bed. Then he proceeded to get ready for the night himself, always with a watchful eye on Valjean and his pistol in his pocket. When Valjean turned at last, his skin was still damp, gleaming wetly in the subdued light. The carpet of hair on his chest was dark, save for the spot where Javert himself had shaved the curls. The brand that had been placed there was still red, impossible to overlook as it stood out against pale skin that had been hidden beneath the mayor's false finery for too many years.

Good, Javert thought with grim pleasure. He would not fool anyone now. Never again.

"Now sleep," he ordered. "We have a long journey ahead of us. I won't let you slow me down. None of your games, Valjean. I know you. If I see you so much as twitch tonight..."

Valjean was looking at him, the approaching twilight hiding the emotion in his eyes. At Javert's words, he hung his head.

"You have nothing to fear from me, Inspector Javert. I would give you my promise—"

"Ha! That is good; that is very good! The promise of a convict, a criminal, a thief! What good is that?" Javert stood, approaching Valjean with determined steps. He wound the chain around his hand, giving it a hard tug for the gratification of seeing Valjean shudder and follow.

"Your words mean nothing," Javert said in a low voice. "But I should have known that you would try. The man's a liar, of course he will keep trying to play his games! Now be silent. I don't want your lies or your pleas. If I hear one sound of you tonight, you shall regret it!"

Subdued, Valjean allowed himself to be led to his bed of straw. Once he had stretched out on it, Javert looked at the chain once more. Valjean's wrists were still shackled, and Javert had no intention of unlocking them; he knew the brute's strength, after all, and had no particular desire to wake to them wrapped around his throat. And yet, how to make sure that the man would not attempt escape?

In the end, Javert chained him to the stove. It was made of cast iron, and while it was certainly possible for a man of such immense strength to move or destroy the stove to free the chain, Valjean would not be able to do so silently.

Valjean remained quiet. Pleased with himself, Javert went to pour out the dirty water before he proceeded to wash himself. He kept an eye on Valjean throughout, but the man was curled up on his sack, either pretending to be asleep or having succumbed to reverie as soon as he had rested his head.

Twilight had approached, and in the distant darkness, the frogs redoubled their efforts. Satisfied that his convict was well secured, Javert went to bed. The linen was cool against his skin; everything was silent. He stayed awake for a few more minutes, suspiciously listening to the soft, regular sound of Valjean's breathing in the darkness of the room, before he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep himself.

***

The next day dawned just as hot as the day before. The mare walked slowly but steadily, and behind him, Valjean followed along, his shirt open so that the brand would not be irritated by the fabric. Propriety should have made Javert force him to close his shirt, but there was a certain satisfaction in seeing Jean Valjean trudge along behind him, with his crime stamped on his skin for all to see.

They did not meet many people on the road, although those that passed them made certain to keep a respectful distance from Valjean as soon as they became aware of the chains and the brand. Once or twice, when Javert halted at a village well to water his horse, he was forced to tell the tale of Valjean's crimes to a curious citizen or two. There was a certain satisfaction in exposing all of Valjean's lies too, especially since the man was forced to listen to the tale of his own villainous exploits. Never again would Valjean be able to hide behind lies and mock the very state he was supposed to represent.

That night, they stopped at an inn at a crossroad. The roads that came together here led north towards Lyon and then Paris—the road Javert would travel with his convict. Other travelers came from Nice to the east, or journeyed west towards Montpellier or Toulose. Several coaches had stopped at this inn for the night, but Javert was able to receive lodgings in the last free room the inn keeper had left.

This room was smaller than the one they had shared the night before; situated beneath the roof, it was stuffy with heat and smelled of dust and old wood. There was barely enough room on the floor to stretch out a straw mattress for Valjean, but when Javert opened the window, cooler air came in, rumbling thunder in the distance promising an approaching shower.

Javert scowled as he turned to look at Valjean. "I should make you stand in the rain to get you clean," he said, then added, "well, never mind. We'll do something about that tomorrow."

There was no stove to chain Valjean to. Javert stared at the sparse room with a glower on his face. He would be damned if he would leave the man untied at night!

At last he motioned for Valjean to settle down. He ignored the way the man rubbed his chained wrists. Perhaps he would unchain him tomorrow, so he could wash the filth from his body and scrub his clothes, but it would happen somewhere where he could keep an eye on him. Javert would not be tricked into lowering his guard at night, when Valjean might steal away into the darkness like the thief he was!

At last, Javert tied the chain to the window grate. It left Valjean more freedom than he liked, but with his wrists still bound, Javert doubted that the man could get up to much.

Just in case, Javert kept his pistol beneath his pillow, breathing silently in the oppressive heat until the wind picked up and cold air blew in, a shower finally coming down onto the shingles of the roof. Javert fell asleep to the pleased thought that the roads would be less dusty tomorrow.

When he woke again, everything was still dark. For a moment, he did not know what had woken him. He laid silently in the darkness, waiting, the dim light of the moon illuminating the short curtain that billowed in the gentle breeze—and then there was a sound.

The moon revealed now the silhouette of Valjean who had sat up, who was in fact hunched over, clutching at something—and was the villain showing his cards so soon? Did Valjean truly think to attempt escape on the second night?

In one quick motion, Javert grabbed the pistol from beneath his pillow and rolled out of bed, landing behind Valjean. He pressed the gun to his neck, fierce satisfaction running through him when the man froze in terror.

"I warned you," Javert said grimly, "I warned you and you didn't listen! I told you that if you so much as lift a single finger in an attempt to free—"

"Please," Valjean gasped, his voice taut with pain, "it's just a cramp. I swear it!"

With a snarl, Javert moved back a little. In fact, the mysterious thing Valjean was clutching was not a saw or some other object to get rid of his chains. Valjean's hands were clutching his calf, fingers digging into muscle as he winced. There was the gleam of sweat on his brow. Even as Javert watched, Valjean's hands dug deeper into his calf as he panted, rubbing at the spasming muscle, until at last he relaxed, still breathing heavily.

"So you say," Javert said, peering at his hands in distrust. There was not enough light to make out whether Valjean had some small implement hidden away. He had sounded pained—but Valjean was also adept at trickery.

"And a very convenient cramp it is," Javert muttered. "What next, will you demand I unchain you? Will you demand a horse? Oh no, you better learn to keep quiet at night!”

Valjean did not speak. His shoulders were hunched, and he was still massaging his calf, the chain that connected his hands rattling a little. The moonlight made it difficult to make out the expression on his face. After a moment, Javert straightened, having come to a conclusion he disliked greatly, but which he thought he could not avoid in good conscience.

He unfastened the chain from the window grate. At the sound, Valjean looked up at him, and Javert clenched his jaw. "Come along," he said unkindly. "You're staying where I can keep a close eye on you."

He motioned towards the bed; when Valjean did not immediately obey, he gave the chain a hard tug. "Lie down!"

"You don't need to do that," Valjean offered, his voice soft and weary. "It was only a cramp. I wasn't trying to—"

"Silence!" Javert snapped. "I wasn't asking for more of your sorry excuses! Lie down, I said; I have little patience for your lies."

The bed was not as narrow as the one Javert had slept in at the last inn; even so, Valjean's shoulders were broad enough to take up more than half of the available space. Javert scowled as he looked down at him, but without another word he proceeded to wind the chain through the wrought-iron headboard, and then connected the end to the shackles around Valjean's wrists.

"Well, that should suffice even for a scoundrel like you," he said with great satisfaction. 

Chained like this, Valjean could sleep and even turn, but there was not enough give in the chain for him to use his formidable strength against Javert. Most importantly, any further attempt to escape would not pass without Javert's notice.

"I'm sorry I disturbed your sleep," Valjean said quietly.

Javert ignored him and instead returned to his side of the bed. He grimaced when he brushed against Valjean, but there was no avoiding it. There was not enough space to find a comfortable position to rest without touching Valjean, and so he clenched his teeth and settled in to sleep, his body tense from the unaccustomed sensation of another sharing his bed.

Even though Valjean remained silent, the sound of his breathing could be heard. Every time he inhaled, his chest expanded, the skin of his back hot even through the fabric of his shirt as it brushed against Javert's own back.

Javert stared into the darkness, listening. Nothing could be heard but the patter of rain against the roof and Valjean's breathing. The sound was quiet and regular. After a moment, there was the jingling of chains as Valjean shifted. Then everything was silent once more.


	5. Chapter 5

Despite the rain of the past night, the following day brought a return of the relentless glare of the sun. The shower had washed much of the dust from the streets, but as Valjean found himself once more following along behind Javert, the relief was not long-lived. By the time noon arrived, the road they traveled was a long line of baked, cracked earth that meandered past orchards and fields.

Javert finally stopped for a rest when they found a grove of olive trees. Gratefully, Valjean fell to his knees in the shade beneath a gnarled tree, but as soon as Javert had dismounted, he felt the familiar tug on the chain.

“Come along,” Javert said with another scowl. “You look disgraceful. And you reek.”

Valjean did not protest as Javert lead him through the grove until they reached a small stream. Valjean's throat was parched, but for once Javert did not force him to kneel and drink like a leashed animal led to water.

“Don't think you can trick me. I'll be watching you closely,” Javert said, his eyes narrowed with suspicion even as he finally unhooked the chain from Valjean's collar and opened the shackles.

Valjean remained silent as he rubbed his wrists. His limbs felt strangely light all of a sudden. How easy it would be to run now. Of course, Javert had a gun—and yet, would it not perhaps be better to be shot while he tried to escape? Either way, he would be free of the chains and the humiliation that was to be his fate!

Then he took a deep breath and lowered his head. No, it was not so easy. There was Fantine's child, and there was the money he had hidden. He could not endanger his own life in such a way, not yet. There would be more chances for escape once they had returned to Montreuil, and less dangerous ways of achieving it. And if it meant that he would have to bear night after night of the stares and whispers of inn keepers and farmers, then that too would have to be borne.

“Hurry up,” Javert said sharply. He thrust a small ball of soap at him. “Wash those filthy rags. And then wash yourself.”

Valjean took the soap without reply. Then, under Javert's watchful gaze, he proceeded to pull off his shirt. It was grimy with sweat and the dust of the road, and Valjean felt a moment of relief at the thought of wearing clean clothes. A moment later, he became aware of Javert's stare, intense with distrust. He flushed with shame when he remembered Javert's initial still aching hotly on his chest.

Valjean pushed his trousers down as well, still torn between relief, for the worn linen was stained and stiff with dirt, and the nearly overwhelming embarrassment at his vulnerability. Javert had bought him, had marked him with his own name, had him collared like an animal—and yet all of that paled when compared to these moments when he was utterly bared to Javert, exposed in all his shame to that merciless gaze.

Quickly, Valjean waded into the stream. At its deepest, it only reached halfway up his thighs. It was not enough to hide him from Javert's eyes, and so he tried to distract himself by proceeding to wash his clothes as thoroughly as possible.

He had received the garments in Toulon, and although they had been clean then, the journey had left its marks on the cheap linen. Even with the soap, he was not able to scrub all the stains out of the fabric. Still, the clothes were cleaner than before, and he had managed to wash the stale sweat and dust from them. It would make no difference in how people saw him—the terror in their eyes was inspired by the brand and the chains. Whether he wore clean clothes changed nothing about the fact that in their eyes, he was a dangerous convict. But it would be good to feel clean at least for a while, and he cherished this rare moment of cold waver moving against his limbs, the glare of the sun welcome for once on his chilled skin that was blessedly free of the weights of his chains.

He waded out of the water and hung his clothes from the branches of one of the olive trees while Javert watched. Then, Valjean returned into the stream and used the ball of soap to scrub his own skin until it was red, doing his best to ignore the watchful eyes of Javert. This particular humiliation was old and familiar as well—in Toulon, they had been forced to wash in large tubs, scrubbing each other while the guards kept watch.

For eight long years, he had been able to keep to himself in Montreuil. After the years in the bagne, this sudden privacy had been a blessing, and Valjean had grown used once more to the fact that this scarred body was his own, to guard from the eyes of others as he pleased.

Yet now this body had become Javert's property. He had lost more than just the freedom to keep to himself. Why should it then surprise him that Javert would take his privacy together with his freedom?

“Make sure to do it thoroughly,” Javert snapped, interrupting his thoughts. “Who knows what filth you brought with you from Toulon. We'll rest only until your clothes have dried, so don't dawdle.”

Instead of an answer, Valjean proceeded to soap his hair as well as the beard that had begun to sprout on his chin.

“Would you let me shave, monsieur?” he dared to ask after a moment.

Javert glowered in reply. “Do you think me a fool? I will not hand you a sharp blade, oh no. You will have to try harder than that.”

Valjean drew his hands along his chin again. “As you wish,” he said in resignation.

The scratch of stubble was unfamiliar, but perhaps in time Javert would relent. Regardless of what Javert thought of him, Valjean had little desire to find that a beard had begun to house what fleas or lice inhabited those inns they lodged in.

When Valjean left the water at last, his skin was chilled but clean. Javert was still staring at him—perhaps to make certain that Valjean had not found some weapon in the stream and hid it on his body to assault Javert as soon as he took his eyes off him.

The thought made a small smile tug on Valjean's lips, although he quickly schooled his features when Javert's eyes narrowed at him. If there was one thing he had learned about Javert, then it was that the man would not abide disrespect. And they had still many miles to travel—too many to provoke Javert now.

The sun was hot on his wet skin. The chirping of crickets was a loud drone that endlessly rose and fell. A light breeze made the leaves of the grove rustle. Even with the collar still around his neck and his body bared to Javert's eyes, Valjean felt the blossoming of hope within his heart.

He was clean now; it was not much, but he was grateful to be treated like a human by Javert, who had the license to do far worse than chain him. Javert was merciless, but even so he had never been needlessly cruel. Valjean had survived so much worse; he could swallow the humiliation of travel as Javert's slave. It would not be for long.

"Sit down," Javert said and pointed at the tree where Valjean had hung his clothes to let them dry.

When Javert approached with the chain, Valjean obediently tilted his head to let Javert fasten it once more. After a moment of consideration, Javert left his hands free. Instead, Valjean was given a slice of bread and some cheese. He ate quietly, his face flushed and averted from Javert who did not cease staring at him with the grim mien of a man guarding a dangerous beast. It was a relief when finally, the wind had dried Valjean's clothes so that he could dress once more.

"You don't need to," he ventured when Javert approached at last with the shackles.

Javert's eyes darkened. "I have not asked for your opinion!" Contentment spread on Javert's face as the shackles snapped in place with a metallic clang. "If you think you can ask to be unchained you're even less smart than I thought. No, you will have to try harder than that."

Valjean raised a hand to his collar and wrapped his fingers around the chain connected to it. "But where could I go? What could I do with this on me?"

"Enough!" Javert's jaw clenched. "So you can try and strangle me the minute I am distracted? Oh no; I know men like you, Jean Valjean. I know what you are planning."

"I would not do such a thing," Valjean said in quiet resignation, even though he knew that it was no use. "Not to you nor to any other man, monsieur."

Javert made a contemptuous sound. “Have a care, Valjean. There are ways to bring you to heel if you will not follow!”

Valjean paled, remembering the shame and terror of Javert's fingers touching him so intimately, and at last averted his eyes.

“Yes, I knew that would make you see sense,” Javert said in satisfaction. “You seem attached to your balls; mind that you give me no reason to see if you'd be more placid without them.”

“No, monsieur,” Valjean murmured, head bent, and then began once more the long hours of trudging along behind the patient mare, walking past hills and orchards and meandering streams until the burning sun stood low and the shadows got longer.

The chamber they found when Javert finally stopped for the night had a table and chairs, although the bed was narrow and hard. Still, it meant that they had their supper in the privacy of their own room. It was a relief to eat with only Javert's gaze burning on him. Afterward, Valjean undressed and washed without complaint, grateful for the hours of rest, even though he would spend them in chains.

Once Javert had inspected the room, he had glowered and then proceeded to chain Valjean to the bed yet again. Valjean refrained from pointing out that he would not harm Javert; experience had taught him that it would only serve to enrage Javert further. Still, sharing the bed with Javert was a tense affair; his skin crawled whenever he felt Javert move next to him, and with every heartbeat, the brand on his chest ached with the dull pain that had become a familiar companion.

It would have been more restful to sleep on the bare planks of the floor. In the bed, even though Javert was generous enough to allow some give in the chains, he dared not move, his aching muscles tense in misery as he waited for Javert to fall asleep.

Then, at last, when all was dark and Javert's breathing was regular, Valjean allowed himself to relax. His left shoulder ached. Slowly, he turned as much as he was able to without disturbing Javert, trying to find a way to rest without putting pressure on the still painful brand.

He could not see; the moon had waned to a sliver, and Javert had drawn the curtain. Everything in their chamber was blackness. The air was warm. The bed was hard, and he could hear Javert breathing. He could smell him, too, a hint of sweat beneath the soap he had used to wash. His body was rigid and hot where it brushed against Valjean.

When he closed his eyes, it was easy to believe that he had been returned to Toulon, chained to another as he slept on wooden planks, the heat of his chainmate's body the only comfort there was in that place of torment. How quickly the years of freedom fell away. The planks beneath him and the weight of the chains were so familiar that it seemed as if he had never left the bagne. Was there a life without chains? Was there truly such a thing as freedom, was there respect, was there a bed of his own and nights spent in prayer instead of sweating on planks between unwashed bodies pressed against him?

It seemed almost easier to believe that Javert had been right, that for someone like Valjean, there was only the bagne and the shame of the chains.

His sleep was fitful. He woke often, too aware of the solid mass of Javert against him and the chains at his throat and his wrists. The air in their small chamber was stifling; the smell of sweat and horse clung to them. Whenever he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, he found himself chained in the salle, familiar bodies squeezed tight to either side of him. The weight of nineteen long years rested heavy as a stone on his chest, suffocating him until he grasped at the iron that encircled his neck in wide-eyed terror, panting in the darkness.

Once, he thought himself chained and exposed on the scaffold again, yet this time, there were familiar faces among the strangers who pointed and laughed. There was M. Bamatabois, who had sat in the jury at Arras; there was Master Scaufflaire, and here was even his old portress, all assembled in a circle around his exposed body. In his terror, he strained against the chains that tightened until he felt them cutting into his flesh, his ribs creaking in protest. Then there was a worse pressure, Javert's large hand squeezing around his balls until Valjean cried out in shame and fear, tears dripping from his eyes as he begged Javert not to do it, to spare him that one shame—

A sharp pain woke him.

“Snap out of it,” Javert growled, so close that he could feel the heat of his breath. “Stop your racket! You'll wake the entire inn!”

Valjean shuddered, still gasping for breath, his cheek smarting. In the darkness, he could make out Javert's silhouette above him. One hand clenched around his shoulder, pressing him back into the hard mattress. Javert's eyes were gleaming in the gloom, and for one moment, Valjean felt himself transported back to Toulon once more, alone in the darkness with the weight of Jacques-Louis to his right and Gilbert to his left and the sounds of gasps and groans in the air.

“What's all that bawling for your balls for?” Javert muttered in annoyance. “So attached to them? In that case I'd expect you to work harder for the privilege of keeping them!”

Valjean had to squeeze his eyes shut and swallow down another panicked plea. This was not the salle. This was not the darkness of the bagne, and the weight atop him was not that of his chainmate. Valjean forced himself to breathe slowly until the images of his dream began to recede.

“I'm sorry,” he forced out at last, his voice still rough.

Javert's fingers dug deeper into his shoulder. Valjean shuddered as he remembered them clenched around his balls. The brand flared up with new pain at the memory.

“Please, Inspector Javert. It was a dream. It won't happen again, I swear it!”

Javert scoffed. “So you keep saying. What's all that begging for anyway? Why all those promises you made on the scaffold?”

Valjean made a humiliated sound when Javert struck with the lethal swiftness of the snake, his hand closing around his balls once more, squeezing hard to show him the true misery of his place.

“I'm truly starting to believe you would be less of a nuisance if I were to—”

“No,” Valjean interrupted, fear making him speak out even though he knew that it was impossible to move Javert to mercy. “No, please, I—”

Javert laughed, the sound harsh as his fingers twisted around Valjean's balls. “The saintly mayor has hidden his appetites all these years, is that it? Ah, but I always knew. Take care, Valjean, this is not the bagne. If you think you'll still have the freedom to beat and mount other brutes like you did then—”

“I never,” Valjean gasped, his chest tight with pain as he trembled, held by the chains and Javert's cruel grip on his testicles. “I swear it. There is no reason for you to— I wouldn't, I...” He shuddered in his terror, straining helplessly with no way of escape left to him. “I would not force myself on another, never! In the bagne, I... I only ever gave myself to others.”

At his words, Javert recoiled, so taken by surprise that he released his grip on Valjean's balls. Valjean was panting, still held in place by chains and shackles, too close to Javert after that shameful confession. His cheeks were burning even as the memories of long, miserable nights made bearable only by rough touches resurfaced.

“Javert, I—” he began, heart pounding in his chest when Javert did not reply.

Then, suddenly, Javert laughed, the sound disdainful.

“Did you,” Javert said, and although it was too dark to see the sneer on his face, Valjean knew it was there. “Did you! Well then, Jean Valjean, perhaps I should have known. No wonder you sided with that whore. Of course, I should have realized! You're a sly one. Why use your strength when there are easier ways of achieving your desires?”

Mortified, Valjean remained silent. It was too warm; his body was sticky with sweat, and his heart was racing so fast in his chest that his pulse was a dull roar in his ears.

Again Javert chuckled, and then suddenly, his hand shot out to grip the chain, tightening his hold until the iron collar bit into Valjean's throat.

“Don't think you can play your games with me,” Javert hissed. “I won't have it. No more bawling and begging. No more of your tricks. And if you think you can entice me with your perversions—”

Valjean swallowed thickly. “No, monsieur,” he choked out, trapped without escape as Javert stared at him, his fury and revulsion palpable even in the darkness of the room.

At last, Javert released him with another disgusted sound. Valjean coughed, his chest heaving as he was able to breathe freely at last. Javert did not speak as he turned pointedly around to settle down once more. Valjean did not dare to move.

He stared into the darkness for a long time, shame and a deep weariness washing through him at his confession. He should not have told Javert, for he would not hesitate to use Valjean's secrets against him. And yet. Was it not better that Javert thought him wanton or sly, rather than a dangerous brute?

Again the familiar faces of Montreuil rose up before him, staring at him in disgust. He flinched as he imagined how gratified Javert would feel to be able to embellish his tales of Valjean's sins.

But that too could be borne. It had to be. Any humiliation could be borne; had he not learned that? Surely in the end, it was better than the threat of mutilation that still hung over him.


	6. Chapter 6

Javert nudged Valjean with the tip of his boot.

“Get up!” He scowled when Valjean slowly complied.

Another day of travel awaited. In the past two inns, he had found various ways to tie Valjean securely for the night. Javert had been glad for it; despite the heightened risk that Valjean might try to escape during the night, his sleep was more restful that way.

He scowled again as he looked at Valjean's face. The man needed a shave, as much as he did not like to admit it. He liked the thought of a blade in the scoundrel's hands even less, and yet...

“Wash. And shave!” he added reluctantly after a moment, nodding towards the basin and pitcher of water where he had seen to his own ablutions earlier. “You look disgraceful.”

With the beard sprouting, Valjean looked like a bagnard in truth. Clad in nothing but the cheap, worn shirt, Javert was once more astonished that he should have ever been taken in by the man. It was hard to believe now that once, Javert had been forced to scrape and bow before this convict in disguise.

But no more of that, he thought with pleasure when he sat down on the bed, keeping a watchful eye on Valjean. The wall here had come with a heavy iron ring; once, there might have been furniture attached to to it. This night, Valjean had been leashed to it. The chain had just enough give that Valjean could use the basin on the desk to wash, although it was too short to enable Valjean to attack Javert in his sleep at night.

Perhaps he was in need of a similar altercation for his own rooms, he pondered, and then sat up straight, taken aback by the thought of the massive body of Jean Valjean moving in his cramped apartment. His rooms were beneath the roof, where the rent was cheap even though the rooms were larger than what was strictly necessary, but a sudden unease began to spread as he imagined Valjean moving within his bedchamber.

After a moment, he forcefully pushed that doubt away. He would deal with that problem when the time came; in any case Valjean was a convict, a recidivist, a dangerous man. Even to sleep on the floor of Javert's kitchen would already be more leniency than the man deserved.

Outside, the song of the birds gained in volume as the light grew brighter. Valjean turned his head to the side, hesitated for a moment, and then pulled off his shirt.

Javert curled his lips at that false modesty. Was the man trying to hide something, or was this yet another of his games?

Either way, it would not avail him.

“There, a bagne flower once more,” he said when Valjean had finished, humor in his voice as he stared at the man's clean-shaven profile.

A man in the prime of his life, arms strong enough to wrestle an ox, a back that could lift a caryatid, legs like tree trunks... and yet Javert was to believe that all this bunching muscle and barely contained strength had yielded to the demands of others?

He had known such men, Javert conceded at last, and it was true that the bagne seemed a fertile breeding ground for perversions of this sort. And yet, to imagine Jean Valjean—to imagine the man who had postured as mayor Madeleine—beneath another such brute, to imagine him willingly submit to such a thing, those strong thighs bending in obedience...

Blood rushed to Valjean's face, and he turned his head away from Javert as he quickly slipped into his clothes. His silence only increased Javert's sudden amusement. He was still smiling to himself even as he went to put the chains around Valjean's wrists once more, and then started another day of travel.

They had left behind the hills and valleys of Haute-Provence with the looming peaks of the Alps. Valjean had been quiet these past few days, his head often bent towards the east. Even when Javert would stop for a rest in the midday heat, Valjean's gaze would rest on those distant mountains.

But now the road to Montélimar meandered past forested hills and the lavender fields and olive orchards the region was famous for. It was still warm, but the heat was no longer quite as suffocating. When they finally reached another inn, their supper was served outside on one of several tables that populated a small courtyard, the air heavy with the scent of flowers while frogs croaked loudly in the distance. It was a small village they had stopped at, and the inn was not busy. The chamber they were shown to was small, half the space taken up by the bed. It did not offer any conveniently placed rings of iron, but the bed was large enough that it could be shared without discomfort.

Javert made certain to test Valjean's chains again as he tied him to the bed. The collar and shackles were still just as secure; if Valjean was planning something, he had not yet dared to try and break his chains. Still, Javert was certain that such a moment would come. He was prepared for it; the man might have escaped Toulon four times, but Javert would be damned if he would allow himself to ever be shamed by Jean Valjean again.

In the twilight of their chamber, Valjean's eyes gleamed at him. His hands were folded in a mockery of prayer, his face soft and relaxed in the light of the candle. A sudden image struck Javert, violent and bright like the impact of lightning: this same body stretched out beneath another, that face frozen in a grimace of savage pleasure, the strong body arching on the planks as a ruthless chainmate made use of him right there in the salle...

Javert tore himself away, recoiling from that vision. His earlier good humor was forgotten. Stiffly, he readied himself for bed, his jaw clenched as he forced those thoughts away. Whether Valjean had played the Ganymede in the bagne made no difference at all; Javert had purchased him, and he would remain Javert's, without recourse to such perverted games, and safely away from men who might underestimate his strength. 

He blew out the candle and went to bed, determinedly closing his eyes. Valjean was silent, perhaps already asleep. Javert could hear the soft sound of his breathing. He would only need to turn around and they would sleep as men had slept in the bagne—

He ground his teeth and forced his thoughts away from that horrifying image. Instead, he took a mental inventory of the coin that remained to him, and which would now have to stretch to provide for two travelers' provisions. It took a long time until he fell asleep.

When he woke, the room was already filled by the early light of the morning sun. Birds were singing outside the window, and Javert thought of the distance they would have to travel today.

Then he became aware that something was wrong. Next to him, Valjean rested beneath the blanket. He did not move or make a sound—and it was that suspicious silence which had roused Javert's distrust. Any other morning, he would have been able to hear the soft sound of Valjean's breathing.

When Javert carefully turned his head, he saw that Valjean was turned away from him. There was a tension in his shoulders. Valjean was awake, Javert was certain of that.

Awake—but pretending to be asleep.

A grim smile appeared on Javert's lips. Had he not suspected this would happen? Something was amiss, and he would be damned if he had not been right all along. Valjean was planning an escape. Had the man found some sort of implement Javert had overlooked when he had allowed him to shave? Was Valjean even now trying to force the lock on his shackles?

Javert got up. He did not try to be silent; Valjean had heard him wake and was still pretending to be asleep himself. In derision Javert stared at his motionless body, noting the tension in what was revealed of him.

He walked around the bed. Surely Valjean would assume that he would pull open the curtains next and wash himself at the basin, as that was how Javert had started his days so far on their journey.

Javert's lips twisted into a silent smile. In one quick motion, he reached out to grab hold of the blanket, pulling it away in triumph.

Then he froze. What he had expected—some small knife jabbed into the lock of Valjean's shackles, or maybe the chain half sawed through—was not what awaited him.

The vision that greeted him made him reel, so that for a long moment he was speechless, staring at where Valjean rested on the bed, still securely chained, his shirt rucked up around his waist. And there, between his thighs, his shaft jutted forward, obscenely erect.

After a heart-beat, Valjean's eyes widened in shock. Blood rushed to his face, and he rolled to his stomach.

“Well,” Javert said, taken aback and strangely uncertain. For the first time, he felt shaken. “Well then...”

Valjean did not speak, although Javert could see how tension made his muscles tighten on his back, the white lines of scars shifting even as Valjean held himself perfectly still.

Javert took a deep breath.

“If you think,” he then said, slowly and full of menace, “if you truly think, Jean Valjean, that I could be swayed by such perversions, that you could buy your freedom by offering me such... such a thing, if you think that I'd... that I'd want you as my whore, if—”

“Javert,” Valjean interrupted, his face pale as he turned around at last. “Inspector Javert. Please. I would not.... I would never...”

“No?” Javert scoffed, anger driving back shock at last as he nodded towards where Valjean's shaft still rose from its nest of curls, swollen with blood and much larger than when he had observed it in its limp state before. “I won't have your disrespect! If you think I can be bought with such—”

“I would not dare to,” Valjean said breathlessly, the chains rattling as he tried in vain to pull his shirt down. “Forgive me, monsieur. I woke... I woke like this. I have been praying—but then you woke, and I did not know what to say—”

“Ha! Such pretty lies you tell, but I've told you before, I will not stand for your games!” Grinding his teeth, Javert stared at the evidence before him. He could not look away.

The image had burned itself into his eyes, and even though Valjean had begun to soften now, the sight was captivating: the flesh that before had cringed away from his touch and eyes now blatantly swollen, the heavy sac between Valjean's thighs, the entire scene a tableau of bestial desire. Javert stared at the scattering of hair on those thighs, imagining another man resting between them—was this how scenes like this had played out in the bagne? Was this how Valjean had offered himself to those chained next to him?

“I confess I was surprised at first by what you told me,” he said, his mouth dry, “but now there's no need for that anymore. Why would I be surprised when I have all proof right here before me? The saintly mayor, the philanthropist—no better than the whores by the docks. I warn you, Valjean. I won't have this.”

Again the chains jingled as Valjean twisted in vain. Finally he fell back onto the bed, breathing heavily, his eyes lowered.

“If you were to unchain me, I could cover myself,” Valjean murmured.

He was soft now, Javert saw, but his face and neck were still flushed. When Javert reluctantly came forward, he would not meet Javert's eyes.

“We've got a long day of travel ahead,” Javert eventually forced out. He unwound the chain, and Valjean quickly smoothed his shirt back down, fingers shaking a little.

“I suggest you behave today. If I hear one word out of you after this disgraceful display...”

Valjean swallowed thickly. “It won't happen again, monsieur. It must have been a dream. Some nightmare. I don't know why—”

“Silence!” Javert snapped and gave the chain a harsh tug. “You will be silent today! By God, I am too indulgent; I have shown too much kindness, and this is where these things lead! But no more of that. One single word out of you today, Jean Valjean, and it shall be the lash once more, is that understood?”

Chastened, his face pale now at last, Valjean inclined his head. Javert was still seething. He kept the chain short even when they finally started on this day's journey, so that Valjean was forced to walk next to the mare instead of behind it, where Javert could keep an eye on him.


	7. Chapter 7

The day was pleasantly warm, even though they had left behind the sweltering heat of Toulon. The pace of the mare was not difficult to keep up with. In fact, now that his limbs had grown used to exercise once more after the days of jails and chains as he waited for his trial in Toulon, Valjean felt stronger than he had in a long time.

A blue sky stretched above him, fields and orchards spread out all around him, and he had food and rest during the midday heat and enough sleep at night. It was more than he would have found in Toulon. Yet even with the road unfolding before him, there were the chains. There was the collar, and the itch of the brand that had begun to heal. And always, always there was the gaze of Javert, sometimes suspicious, sometimes triumphant.

Sometimes Valjean prayed that the journey would never end, for he knew what awaited him. Javert's derision was already hard to bear; how much heavier would the cross be when he saw that same derision on the faces of people who had once looked at him with respect and admiration?

They were drawing close to Montélimar now. The road to Montreuil-sur-Mer was still long; they had not yet left the south with its warm, lavender-scented air and those distant peaks that once, eight years ago, had led him to the mountain-town of Digne.

Javert had evaded the steep paths of the Haute-Alps, but the sight of the mountain ranges was enough to recall the kind face of the Bishop to Valjean. Light had seemed to shine from him; the first light Valjean had seen after eighteen years of darkness. What would the Bishop say had he seen him like this? A slave in truth, dragged along by a chain and a collar as though he was less than a dog?

In shame Valjean averted his face. He could not find any words for prayer. Should this be the end of the Bishop's good deed? Was this a punishment for the pride Valjean had shown with his belief that he could do good and relieve the misery around him? Even worse, there was the shame of his weakness in the bagne, all those years ago: the comfort he had taken, the sin that he had thought forgotten, buried in the past along with his red blouse, and which Javert had now dragged to the light once more.

So much time had passed. And yet that night, weighed down by chains and the heat of the body next to him, in his dreams Valjean had found himself in the galleys once more, weary and full of despair. He had not thought of it for so long, yet somehow Javert's words had unleashed the memories. As he slept next to Javert, his body, still weak despite all these years of repentance, had remembered the sins of the convict with terrifying ease. For so long Valjean had striven to be a good man—yet all it had taken was the weight of the chains on him to make him remember the touch of his chainmate's hands. Back then, it had been the only relief he had been granted. He had quickly learned to forget all shame, for abandoning himself to those touches had taken him away from the cramped salle and his weary body for a short time.

“Don't lag behind. Stay where I can see you.” Javert's voice broke through his thoughts, suspicious as ever.

When Valjean looked around, he saw that they had reached the outskirts of Montélimar. The houses here were small and poor, but above them, on a hill, there sat the Château des Adhémar, the pale stone of its walls lit by the sun. Somewhere in the distance, church bells began to ring, and a moment later, other bells followed the call.

The streets were busier than they had been for most of their travels. Merchants had erected little stalls at the side of the road. To their right, an old woman was selling lavender-scented balls of soap. Next to her, a woman with no less than five children milling around behind her boxes and buckets laden with fruits and vegetables was calling out to the travelers who rode past.

But the true attraction could be found on the other side of the road. There, a small crowd had formed in front of a stall that, according to the wooden shield hanging overhead, sold the true _nougat de Montélimar_. A fiacre had stopped there, and two men traveling on heavily laden mules. Children with dirty faces and ripped clothes stood staring with wide eyes, until the man behind the stall raised a knobbly stick in threat and they quickly scattered.

One child remained. A young girl stood holding on to the skirts of her mother, staring with yearning at the piles of nut-studded nougat.

“Mama,” she pleaded, pointing at where the owner of the stall now handed a wrapped parcel to the couple whose fiacre had stopped for the purchase.

The child's mother shook her head. “Come,” she said and tightened her hold on the girl to gently pull her away. Unlike the children the merchant had driven away, these two were not dressed in rags; even so, their clothes were simple and worn.

The child turned around once more, wide, disappointed eyes on the stall whose owner had ignored her and her mother. Valjean could tell from their manner of dress that this was not a treat the girl was used to. Perhaps it was indeed something she had never tasted before. He almost took a step forward before the pull of the chain reminded him once more of who he was.

He was Jean Valjean, a convict—a slave. He was no longer Madeleine, who had been able to bring joy to the faces of children. Had the child seen him, she would have been frightened by the chains on him.

Even so, Valjean felt a hollow, tired despair rise up within him. What good was this life if fate had taken every chance from him to do good? How was he ever to repay the debt burdening his soul after the theft of the coin from Petit Gervais? Had Javert not only bought his body, but also bought his soul, thrusting him into a never-ending darkness as he denied Valjean any chance to climb out from that misery?

“Hurry up,” Javert said impatiently. “The streets are getting too busy. I want to pass the town before noon.”

The mare snorted, eyeing the mules in distrust. The girl was stumbling along after her mother, the small face still turned around to watch the stall with its pyramids of nougat with a quiet, overwhelmed longing.

Valjean's head lowered as though the burden on his shoulders had increased. He took a weary step forward, then another.

A sudden cry woke him from his misery. When he looked up, it was just in time to see a cart hurtling into the wall of the gate before them.

With a loud crash, wood splintered. A large wheel rolled away. The man who had driven the cart yelled in anger even as he toppled and fell—and then the ox who had pulled the cart groaned in agony and rage. The leather of its harness snapped as it reared up, twisting and fighting for freedom in mindless despair.

All of this happened in the span of one heartbeat. A moment later, the panicked ox came thundering towards them, eyes rolling with anger and fear. Amidst screams and shouts, the packed street emptied as travelers tried to squeeze in between stalls to free the path of the terrified beast—until only the child was left.

At the outbreak of sudden terror, her mother had tried to pull her to safety. She had jumped along with others onto an empty cart, pulling up her daughter beside her—but then the child's hand had slipped, and in the push and pull of the masses trying to flee from the ox, the mother had not managed to keep her grip on her daughter.

Alone, the child had toppled back onto the street, sobbing in confusion, unaware that even now the enraged ox was racing straight towards her.

“Unchain me,” Valjean begged in despair, watching in fear how the ox came closer and closer, a cloud of dust rising in its wake. “Javert, please! The child!”

Javert's head turned from the ox to the street. The child was still sobbing while her mother was struggling against the press of bodies on the small cart, crying out in fear. Javert looked at the ox again, his lips parting—but now the ox was so close that there was no time left to think.

In despair, Valjean closed his hands around the chain and with a sudden, powerful tug yanked it from Javert's hands. Then he lunged forward. There were only seconds left now. He ran past the girl, heading straight towards the approaching beast. His wrists were still shackled; at any other time, he might have tried to wrap his arms around the animal's neck and wrestle it to the ground.

Now, when the beast raced towards him, eyes showing white and its mouth flecked with bloody foam, Valjean used the only weapon left to him: the strength and resilience of his own body. With all his might he threw his weight against the animal's shoulder. For a moment, the ox lost its footing, bleating in anger—but even so, the momentum was too much. Although it swayed dangerously, the animal was still making its way forward, until Valjean wrapped his chain around the broad neck of the ox. He threw himself against it, all of his muscles straining as he tried to force the beast to the ground.

The chain bit painfully into his hands, all of his tendons and muscles screaming in protest as the ox groaned and squirmed—and then it fell.

Valjean released the chain just in time. Instead of being buried beneath the mass of the animal's body, he escaped with a glancing blow from a cloven hoof to his thigh. He did not even feel the pain as he rolled out of the way, panting, his eyes on the pale face of the girl. She was kneeling on the street now, only a few steps away from where he had toppled the beast. When her tear-filled eyes met his, awe began to spread across her narrow face.

Then loud cheering and relieved laughter erupted as the travelers, merchants and inhabitants of the houses lining the road descended from where they had fled to escape the maddened ox. They surrounded Valjean, laughing and clasping his shoulder. Quickly, several men grasped hold of the beast's torn harness to keep it subdued as the driver of the cart came slowly limping towards them.

Valjean ignored the cheering mass around him, looking for the small girl once more until a harsh pull on the collar made him stumble to his feet with a wince. He did not need to turn to know that Javert had dismounted to take hold of the chain once more.

“What a feat!” a man cried out. “That convict saved the child!”

“He saved us all! Did you see him run straight up towards the beast?”

“He should be freed!” another voice called, and while hands were patting Valjean's shoulder in relief and approval, others joined in. “What courage! What strength! His sentence should be lifted!”

“He is a dangerous man,” Javert said, cold fury in his voice .

Valjean, who had not dared to look at him, took a deep breath. His thigh ached. Absently, he rubbed where the hoof had hit him as his searching eyes scanned the people milling around them. He could not find the girl and her mother. Worry flooded through him once more despite the way Javert tightened his grip on the chain until the collar bit into his skin.

Then he saw her. The woman had pulled her daughter away to the other side of the street. There, in front of the stall that sold the white nougat, she had knelt down and wrapped her arms around the child, holding her tightly as she wept and smoothed the girl's hair.

Valjean exhaled. For a moment, the weight on his shoulders lifted, and even the bite of the collar and Javert's fury seemed worth the reward of the mother's relief.

“He saved the child's life!” another man said. When Valjean turned around at last to face Javert, he found that it was the owner of the stall who had come forward. “We all saw his bravery and courage! He should be freed!”

“Freed!” Javert exclaimed, baring his teeth at the suggestion. “This is a dangerous criminal! A galley-slave from Toulon who escaped four times and just recently was caught again and sentenced once more. This time, he was sold and branded. He will not be released, do you hear me? You do not know what you demand. Have you not seen the brute's strength?”

“Forgive me, Inspector Javert,” Valjean said quietly. “I could not wait for your approval. There was no time to lose. You saw how close the ox came to that girl.”

The people gathered around them muttered unhappily, perhaps unsatisfied with Javert's denial of the reward they had demanded, or perhaps displeased that their hero had turned out to be a galley-slave. Either way, the crowd slowly began to disperse, although the merchant remained and now turned towards Valjean.

“That was a brave thing you have done,” he said, and Valjean realized with shock that the man had addressed him respectfully. “Is there anything I can do to--”

Mutely, Valjean shook his head, loathe to antagonize Javert further who would no doubt feel humiliated by the entire scene. And yet, there had been no time to explain to Javert what he intended to do. Certainly Javert would add it to his other infractions, and he would have to bear Javert's displeasure.

The merchant now hastily crossed the road, only to reappear after a moment with a bag of the nougat he was selling. When he tried to press it into Valjean's hand, Valjean's lips parted to deny the gift that would undoubtedly enrage Javert—but then his eyes fell onto the child once more, who was wiping her tears on her mother's skirts.

“Give it to the girl, monsieur. That would be reward enough,” Valjean said softly.

He could feel Javert's eyes burning on his back, but even so Valjean did not turn or acknowledge him. Instead, Valjean watched together with what had remained of the crowd as the merchant approached the little girl. He handed her the wrapped bag, and at her wide-eyed gaze, whispered to her and pointed at Valjean.

Once more Valjean had to bow his head, shame welling up within him as he thought of the chains and the collar on him, the brand still itching on his chest. What was he now but one more beast driven through France on a leash?

When he finally looked up, arming himself for the fear that would certainly be on the child's face, he found her clutching the little bag of nougat instead. A smile had spread across her face despite the tear-tracks still gleaming on her cheeks. She didn't flinch away or cry out when he met her gaze. As he watched, she reached into the bag and drew out a cube of white, nut-studded nougat, and then, with slow awe, proceeded to take a bite, still smiling at him.

“That's enough of a commotion you've caused,” Javert snapped at last.

Valjean closed his eyes for one moment before he followed the pull on the chain and turned around. “I'm sorry, monsieur.”

Javert had drawn himself up so that he was towering above him, pale with anger. “I don't believe a single word of that. Ha! As if we haven't seen enough of your lies and your self-serving charity in Montreuil! I've told you this before, Valjean; it is very easy to be kind. Don't expect a reward for your games when I know very well—”

“Monsieur,” the merchant interrupted. Surprised, Valjean turned and found that the man had returned to his side once more. The man still seemed shaken, although there was a quiet determination on his face, and he regarded Valjean without fear while ignoring Javert

“This is for you, monsieur,” the merchant said and thrust another small paper bag into Valjean's hand. Valjean grasped it instinctively, more taken by surprise by that word _monsieur_ which he had not thought he would hear again, than by the gift in his hands.

“May God reward you for what you have done today. We are in your debt, all of us--”

“Enough now,” Javert said with barely concealed fury. “I'm telling you, the man is dangerous, a thief, a robber, a convict!”

“And yet we all saw him save that child,” the woman who had traveled in the fiacre now spoke up.

Valjean hunched his shoulders, the bag an uncomfortable weight in his shackled hands. He did not have to look up to know that Javert's displeasure was increasing.

“I've had quite enough of this commotion. Come along.” Javert gave the chain a brusque yank.

When Valjean turned, he saw that Javert was mounting the horse once more. This time, he proceeded to tie the chain to his saddle, perhaps to make certain that Valjean could not pull it from his hands again.

In silence Valjean looked down at the small parcel in his hands. He should have known that Javert would see the act as open rebellion in front of witnesses. And yet, what else could he have done? At last, he held his reward out to Javert, not quite certain what to do with it now.

Javert scoffed. “You've heard them. Oh, what a brave hero we have standing here before us. Well then, Monsieur Samson, go ahead. It would be impolite not to take it when you've so heroically risked your own life for this reward. It's yours. I don't want it. You earned it, so you shall have it.”

Derision made Javert's lips curl as he stared down at Valjean, holding him pinned with his gaze. Valjean did not dare to speak. After a moment, when the anger on Javert's face increased, he began to open the small bag, what pleasure there had been at the girl's smile now turning to dread. Numbly, Valjean unwrapped a piece of nougat and lifted it to his mouth.

“You must have sorely missed the sweet indulgences of the bagne,” Javert murmured with icy disdain.

Valjean froze. Shame flooded through him once more, his chest suddenly tight. He could barely taste the sweetness of honey and nuts as he bit down on it. In his mouth, the nougat turned into sawdust. He chewed mechanically while Javert watched until at last, he managed to choke it all down. It felt like he had swallowed a stone. Silently, he prayed that Javert would not force him to eat another bite as he let his hand with the bag sink.

Javert held his gaze for a long moment, as if to make certain that Valjean had learned his lesson. Then he nudged the horse onward, and Valjean had to follow behind, his face still flushed with shame, all too aware of the many eyes on him.


	8. Chapter 8

A week of near silence had followed the events of Montélimar. Javert could not forget the moment when Valjean had simply pulled the chain from his hands. He had known all along that eventually Valjean would show his true face, but he had not suspected that it would be quite so soon, and in such a crowd.

Still, Javert had been prepared for such an event. In addition to the collar, there were the shackles around Valjean's hands, which would make any attempt at flight more difficult. In Montélimar, Valjean could have used his chance to escape—yet even had he succeeded, Javert would have hunted him down within minutes.

Certainly Valjean was aware of that as well. Javert wagered that this was the sole reason why the man had not reacted when Javert had taken hold of the chain once more. Still, to see him sway the masses so easily was a warning sign. They needed to avoid places like Montélimar in the future. 

Javert raised his head to look at Valjean. They were resting beneath a copse of cedar trees. The grass was high here, and the mare was grazing in the shade. Valjean had finished the bread and cheese Javert had shared with him. Now he was watching the horse, and Javert wondered for a moment whether he planned to flee on horseback.

No, that would make no sense. There was the gun in Javert's pocket. More importantly, to see a man in chains on a horse was an unmistakable sign that the animal was stolen. Valjean was too sly for such a mistake.

“So. Those men in Arras,” Javert began, taking a pleased note of the small flinch that went through Valjean. “Cochepaille. Brevet. I forgot the name of the third...”

“Chenildieu,” Valjean said softly, his voice pained.

Javert smiled. “Chenildieu,” he repeated. “These men were your chainmates in Toulon? One would not think that one bagne flower would rat out another, but then, perhaps you were missed...”

Valjean swallowed. Where before, he had leaned against the trunk of a cedar as he watched the mare, he now sat stiffly. His cheeks had heated, but after a moment, he frankly met Javert's gaze.

“If you are asking, monsieur, if they were, if I... Chenildieu was my chainmate for four years. Surely you remember that. I have no doubt they wrote down his testimony in Arras. But what you are asking in truth is whether I...”

“I see that topic embarrasses you,” Javert said, watching with a certain pleasure how Valjean shifted uncomfortably. “There's little reason. I admit, I did not suspect—but then, even in Montreuil, there were rumors about your grotto, your strange pleasures. Ah! It seems the rumors were off.”

Valjean took a deep breath. His hands twisted slightly in their chains—and yet, Javert felt secure in the knowledge that even this man who had forced an ox to its knees could not break this iron.

“If you wish to know the truth,” Valjean finally said, weariness creeping into his voice, “then you must also admit that you know how it is in the bagne. How we have no choice about who we are chained to, or how we sleep. And is it not with deliberation that a new arrival is chained to a more experienced man? Do not your own superiors trust in the fact that such a coupled pair will be more docile? Is it not desired by the convict-guards that the more experienced teaches the newly-arrived convict the ways of the bagne?”

Javert was so astounded he could barely speak. Was Jean Valjean truly intending to lecture him—him Javert!—on the ways of the bagne? Had he not himself seen what men like Jean Valjean got up to? And to blame it on Javert's own superiors...!

“It is the galleys that make the galley-slave,” Valjean said. His head was bent; he did not look at Javert as he continued. “When I first arrived at Toulon, I was chained to Boucard. There are worse men in the bagne. Should I be grateful I had a teacher? Perhaps. I was young then. I was alone and I could not understand what had happened to me. When he demanded, I followed. Should I have fought? Perhaps! I barely knew what was happening to me in those days, and in the end, he was gentler than the guards. You know how it is, monsieur, how one feels the cudgel for looking up, how one is cuffed for stumbling. You do not know how one can come to crave a kind touch.”

“Oh, I've seen enough of _that_ in the bagne,” Javert said in derision. “What do you want, Valjean? My compassion? Mercy? Your charity again? Oh no. You'll have no pity from me. I know you, Jean Valjean. I know men like you. You may tell your sad story to the next stranger you meet, but I won't—”

“I'm not asking for your pity,” Valjean said and swallowed, then added, “monsieur. It was you who asked. What I spoke was the truth. You chain me up as though I'm a beast. You brand me and collar me and tell people that I'm a dangerous man. But the truth is that I would not harm anyone, and that what sins I have committed—a man starving for kindness might clutch at any straw, just like a drowning man. Surely that sin is between God and me.”

Javert snorted. “I am not your priest, Valjean. Take care. I have no interest in your confessions.” Suddenly restless, he stood, looking down at Valjean's pale face. “Get up. We have a long way to travel today. I've no time for your pitiful tales.”

“Starving for kindness,” Javert scoffed to himself when he went to retrieve the mare, who was reluctant to part with the sweet grass. “Next he will demand to be freed from his chains! Who knows what game he is playing now. Our famous Jean Valjean, this flower of the bagne, trying to tell me that he's not a dangerous man, that he wouldn't harm a fly! A man who'd sell himself in the galleys! I'd be a fool to believe a single word he says.”

When he turned around to face Valjean, he found that the man was still watching him silently.

“Oh, I always knew you were a sly one, Valjean. I shall be watching you. Take care. One step out of line, and I'll have you taste the lash again.”

Valjean remained silent. Finally, after a long moment had passed, he raised his head to look at Javert with weary eyes. “There is nothing you have to fear from me. Whether you have me in chains or not, I swear that I will not harm you, nor anyone else. You have branded me. You have a gun. Could you not take off the shackles and the collar? Even without chains, I would be in your power.”

“Ha, I knew it. It is as I have said,” Javert said, although some of the satisfaction had gone out of him. “He'll ask to be freed from his chains next, and here we have it. You must take me for a very foolish man, Jean Valjean. What good is your word? The word of a convict, a thief, a prostitute?”

A moment passed, during which he studied Valjean's face attentively. “No, I truly do not understand what game you are playing,” Javert continued at last. “I know men like you. Oh, it makes me laugh still to think of it—mayor Madeleine, venerated by all, and now he sits before me, begging to go free of his chains.”

Javert grabbed hold of the leash, a hand's breadth from where it connected to the collar, and used it to force Valjean to meet his gaze.

“Perhaps instead of the J it should have been the pansy, eh, Valjean? Perhaps that's what you were hoping for. Those galley-slaves bidding on you in Toulon—yes, I know very well what they were—were those your intimate friends? Were you hoping to return into the loving arms of your criminal companions? Well, you may stop hoping. I left a note with the local police to keep an eye on them. Before we even left the Var they will have been back in jail. I've no doubt they are missing your company—but here you are, and here you will stay.”

Valjean did not look away, even though it took a visible effort to raise his head as Javert's grip demanded. “You are wrong, Inspector Javert.”

Javert was pleased to notice the quaver in his voice.

“I did not know them. Although I will agree that they had the look of ex-convicts. One comes to recognize them, simply from having slept and eaten and worked side by side with these men for half a lifetime. Not because I desired their company. Or... or their embrace.” Valjean flushed as he spoke, but did not look away.

“They had a cruel look to them. Had they bought me and asked evil things of me, I would not have done it. You will not believe me, but it is nevertheless the truth. I would rather have the lash. I would rather...” Here Valjean broke off, embarrassment crossing his face for a moment.

Impatience rose in Javert. “Yes? Yes? Out with it, Valjean! I am sick of all this talk! You would rather have me, that is what you were going to say, isn't it? Very well then! Very well! Then all is right! Then all is well! The convict has his wish! The slave has what he deserves! Only,” Javert then hissed, leaning down and pulling Valjean so close that Valjean shuddered, “only what you desire does not matter. Not at all, do you hear me? I don't believe a single word of your tales. You would not have committed evil deeds! You would rather have the lash! Ha! Take good care, Valjean. One day soon we'll see your lies exposed, and how you will rue all those promises then.”

Seeing Valjean subdued always brought a certain pleasure with it, and Javert was still smiling when he mounted the horse once more. For a while, his good humor remained. They were traveling along the banks of the Saône now. The road followed the river; the inns were plentiful, the weather mild. Valjean followed along silently, as it should be. Just when Javert had once more tried to calculate the distance that still remained until Montreuil-sur-Mer, a sudden boom of thunder disturbed the quiet of their journey.

Dark clouds had appeared on the horizon. The wind had picked up, and the clouds were approaching quickly. Javert could make out the eerie shine of lightning in the distance, every and now and then illuminating the clouds from within.

Before them, the river curved in a long loop around a hill overgrown by trees. Javert had studied the map this morning. There was a path that crossed that wood, and which would lead them straight towards the small town where Javert had hoped to find a room for the night.

To take that path through the wood instead of following the river would be shorter by far. Still, it meant a climb for the horse—and for Valjean. This morning, Javert had decided to remain on the wide road following the Saône, but now that he saw the thunderstorm quickly approaching, he changed his mind. With clenched teeth, he nudged the horse off the well-traveled road towards the smaller path that led into the forest.

“Hurry up,” he snapped when Valjean raised his head in question. “I want to reach an inn before nightfall. We are crossing the hill. Don't lag behind, or you'll sleep out in the rain tonight.”

Valjean inclined his head, increasing the length of his strides until he was walking next to the mare. Another boom of thunder reverberated in the distance. The mare snorted, her ears flicking back in alarm. When Javert nudged her, she began to trot eagerly towards the beckoning trees, Valjean keeping pace beside them.

The wind had increased in strength, pulling at their clothes even before they reached the edge of the forest. The day's pleasant warmth had given way to colder air. The thunder seemed much closer now, even though it was muffled by the canopy of leaves above them.

Reluctantly, Javert slowed the horse to a walk. The path was wide enough for two riders, but he did not want to chance the beast stumbling across a root when they were still at least an hour from the nearest roof.

It did not take long until the first raindrops began to fall. The first drop hit Javert's arm. Then a second followed—and a heartbeat later, a torrent of rain came down, a heavy curtain of water that made it difficult to see.

The downpour turned the dry soil of the path to deep mud before they had even traveled halfway up the hill. When Javert turned his head to see whether Valjean was keeping up, he saw him struggling in the mud, his trousers stained with dirt, his shirt completely drenched. It stuck to his skin, revealing the strength of the body hidden beneath: the hard planes of his chest and the muscles bulging and shifting as Valjean fought to make his way forward.

Javert clenched his jaw, tightening his grip on the chain as he remembered the ease with which Valjean had ripped it from his hands. Taking the shackles off him would probably make this journey easier for him, but Javert could not chance it.

The horse persevered onward. Despite the thunder and the pouring rain, she had not protested. But now, when her hoof slipped on the muddy path, she snorted, hesitating for a moment, ears turned back in displeasure, until Javert forced her on and she finally cleared the slippery spot with a small jump.

While the horse found her footing once more, Javert was distracted by a pull on the chain. Immediately he tightened his grip, scowling as he realized that Valjean must have waited for the distraction of a storm like this—but when he turned, he found that Valjean was still trying to make his way towards him.

Valjean had fallen behind, visibly struggling on the steep, muddy path. His eyes were half closed against the force of the storm and the rain. He had grasped the chain with both hands and now used it to stay upright as he moved onward step after step, slipping in the mud and on the slick rocks that lined the path.

With a grimace of displeasure, Javert halted the horse for a moment. He had only intended to give Valjean a chance to catch up—but when Valjean stumbled closer, Javert saw that he was panting, and that he seemed to have trouble walking.

Once more suspicion rose up in Javert as he took a closer look at Valjean. Was the man faking an injury now in the hope that Javert would release him from his chains?

Then Valjean lifted his right leg, the shoe he wore reappearing from a puddle so deep that the water had soaked into his trousers, and Javert saw that in the storm, Valjean's shoe had begun to fall apart. The cheap leather had split at the seams; the sole had mostly ripped off. At the thought of Valjean scrambling up the steep path with its sharp stones and hidden roots, Javert felt new annoyance rise up in him.

By God, Javert was not a cruel man, but Jean Valjean was sorely taxing his patience. Had the man chosen to wait until such a moment as this to vex Javert?

Rain was still pouring down. Judging by the incessant roll of thunder, the storm was right above them.

"This is not the time for your games, Valjean," Javert murmured through clenched teeth.

The mare moved unhappily in place, her ears flat against her skull as a new boom of thunder resounded, a flash of lightning illuminating the sky for a heartbeat.

"The deuce, Valjean, you truly try my patience," Javert said out loud, baring his teeth at the storm in disgust at what he would have to do.

Then he slipped from the back of the mare, angry and put-out by the ever new complications this man brought with him. He pulled Valjean closer by the chain.

"Get up," he commanded curtly, and then, at Valjean's tired, apprehensive look, he grabbed his shirt and bodily pushed him towards the mare.

"Get up, I said! Hurry. You've already caused me enough trouble today."

Valjean would have to ride in front of him. There was no other option. He could leave Valjean tied to a tree while he rode towards shelter—but Javert did not doubt for one second that in that case, he would find the devil gone tomorrow.

No. They would have to mount her together. The mare could make it. They could only ride slowly in this weather anyway, and as long as he made sure that Valjean was in front of him, he could keep him under control. He still had his pistol in his pocket, after all, and Valjean's hands were chained.

It was most unfortunate, but it could not be changed.

Once Valjean had silently climbed atop the mare's back, Javert grimly followed. The horse blew out air in discontent through her nostrils, but when Javert prodded her, she moved onward, head held low.

In front of them, Javert could now make out the crest of the hill. Once they had made it there, they would only have to follow the path back down, and then he would stop at the first inn they came across. Today, Javert would take any chamber that was left, whether it meant that he would have to share a bed with Valjean or not.

For now, Valjean was blessedly silent. He was wet; Javert could see water dripping from his hair, soaking into his shirt.

Again Javert grimaced. Valjean's trousers were wet as well, and they were so close that they rubbed against Javert's thighs with every step of the horse.

Javert tried to shift, but it was no use. Now that the way led downward, gravity pulled him forward. No matter how much he tried to straighten, he slid forward again and again, his thighs rubbing against the back of Valjean's with every single step.

To his horror, Javert realized after a moment that he had begun to harden at the merciless friction. He was pressed tightly against Valjean's backside. There was no way to escape this closeness—and there was also, he realized with sudden shock, no way that Valjean was not aware that Javert was erect.

It was enough to drive a man insane. Javert clenched his teeth. He tightened his fingers around the reins.

For a moment, he wished that he had never purchased the man. Valjean had caused him nothing but trouble so far. And now they were caught in a storm together, and his own body betrayed him, and Valjean, who had boasted of his unnatural adventures in the bagne, had probably brought this about for some nefarious reason...

Even as Javert glared at the back of the man in front of him, he could see Valjean stiffen. Valjean's shoulders hunched together, his head lowered. Valjean did not speak, but Javert was gratified to see that the man was aware of his own guilt in this matter, and Javert's own annoyance at the situation.

He almost wanted to berate Valjean for it—but the constant friction was distracting. It took what willpower he had to try and ignore it as best as he could while keeping control of both the mare and the convict in front of him.

Through an opening between the trees, he could now see the bend of the river and the beckoning shapes of distant houses. He only had to make it to the nearest inn, he told himself. He would have a fire and wine and a bed, and he would finally be dry again and sleep. And if Valjean dared to speak a single word to him today, Javert would see to it that the man would regret it.


	9. Chapter 9

Valjean was stiff with cold, soaked to the bone—and all too aware of the heat of Javert pressed against him, the hard bulge rubbing against his buttocks with every step of the horse. He hurt all over, and when the horse stopped, he was surprised to find that they had at last reached an inn.

Javert dismounted briskly. As soon as he opened the door, he was meet by the innkeeper, a formidable woman with frazzled hair turning gray. Suspiciously, she peered out into the pouring rain, only to grow pale and clutch her chest when she saw Valjean in his chains on the horse.

“We have no rooms left,” she told Javert, “not a single room, and _that_ would not be welcome here either way. Dear God! He looks as if he would kill us all in our sleep; no, monsieur, this is an orderly establishment, and I won't have such a brute disturb my guests!”

Valjean's head sunk lower. He stared at the chains that connected his wrists. The mare shook her head, just as tired and wet as the two of them, and for a moment Valjean remembered Javert's threat. Would Javert chain him somewhere outside while he went off and found shelter? Valjean had survived worse nights, but right now he was aching and sore all over, the earlier conversation with Javert chafing against old bruises on his soul.

“Your stable then,” he heard Javert say with obvious annoyance. “Surely there is place left in the stable. I won't bring him inside, and he is chained. There is no danger there for you. Madame, it is cold and it is still raining, and I want a cup of hot wine and warm food and a place to sleep. I will take the straw if I have to. And my prisoner will be chained.”

“Twenty sous for the both of you,” the woman said firmly. “And for another thirty you can have stew – mutton, carrots, onions—and your wine. Inside by the fire, if you want. But he will stay outside.”

How strange it was, Valjean thought to himself, to have returned once more to that state where he was worth not even the dog's kennel in the night, and stranger still to hear Javert for once proclaim him no danger.

“Here is your money,” Javert said gruffly, “and here are another ten sous. Send your boy with the food and wine, and have him bring blankets as well.”

With a frown, Valjean watched Javert return, then quickly slipped from the mare's back. The foot where the shoe had split ached when it had to bear his weight, but he dared not thank Javert for this unwonted kindness. Javert's mien was still dark as he grabbed the chain and the horse's reins, and then both of them were led into the stable.

It seemed that a man released by the law was less than a dog, but a man sold to the law had at least the worth of a beast of burden. There was little humor in the thought, but when they entered the stable, a low building warmed by the bodies of the animals resting within, Valjean felt a moment of gratitude. No matter what Javert's opinion of him might be, it would be good to sleep with a roof over his head tonight.

Still looking grim, Javert pulled his bags from the horse, water dripping from his coat.

“Rub her dry,” Javert commanded. For a moment, he stared at the chain in his hand, but then the door to the stable opened once more and a boy came inside, carrying blankets and a steaming mug. With a frustrated sound, Javert released the chain.

Valjean was careful not to comment on the gesture. Instead, he bent down and tugged it into his belt, so that it would not drag through the muck or be stepped upon. The mare had already settled into the stable, her head deep in her bucket of oats. She did not even raise it when Valjean, now shivering himself, began to rub her dry with some clean straw.

Once, when he looked up, he found Javert watching him, sipping from his mug. He had changed into dry clothes and wrapped the blanket around himself, wet clothes spread out across a bale of straw. Quickly, Valjean averted his eyes, embarrassment spreading through him. He could still feel the hard length of Javert's shaft pressed against him as they were forced to ride together. Was Javert still aroused? Had it just been the closeness and the friction that had affected him?

It had to be, he told himself. Javert had made no secret of what he thought of Valjean's confession. Surely such a thing would not have moved Javert to lust, not when he had mocked Valjean for succumbing to what little comfort there had been in the bagne.

When the horse was dry, the stable door opened once more. This time, the boy was carrying two large bowls. Even here among the horses Valjean could smell the savory scent of mutton and onions.

“Is she dry? Make sure she has enough water and hay for the night. She deserves it. Then come here,” Javert ordered.

Valjean inclined his head, the cold, wet clothes still clinging to his own body as he carried a large armful of hay into the box and then refilled the water.

The mare blew air out her nostrils, tired but satisfied, her large teeth still slowly grinding the oats. Valjean made sure that the box was securely closed, then rejoined Javert, who had placed the bowls on an old barrel. He smelled faintly of wine and spices, but Valjean did not envy him the drink. He was famished after the trek through the rain and mud, and just like the mare, filled by nothing but relief and gratefulness when he raised the spoon to his lips.

The inn was better than what they were used to—it was no wonder the innkeeper had not wanted a chained convict-slave in her establishment. Still, Valjean did not mind the stable, and the stew was indeed an improvement on what they had been served on their journey. The chunks of mutton were large and juicy, the broth rich, the onions and carrots so tender they melted on his tongue. Each of them had a large piece of bread to soak up the stew, golden-crusted and soft inside, and Valjean hungrily emptied his bowl before he even thought to look up at Javert again.

Javert had already finished before him. Now, he found Javert staring at him.

Would there be another round of questioning now? More barely veiled insults?

Valjean was too tired to care. Let Javert do what he might; right now, all Valjean desired was to dry himself and then sleep for as long as he was allowed.

“Your hands,” Javert commanded.

Unquestioning, Valjean stretched them out, waiting for Javert to check the security of chains and lock. Instead, to his surprise, he found Javert unchaining his hands. Confused but relieved, Valjean rubbed his wrists.

“Up that ladder,” Javert said and nodded towards the hayloft. 

Once more Valjean waited for a moment, but when Javert made no motion to grab the chain, he turned and did as ordered. 

It was stuffy beneath the roof. The air was filled with dust, but the incessant thrum of rain falling onto the roof and the low rolling of thunder in the distance made Valjean grateful that they would spend the night warm and dry.

Still shivering, he hesitated a moment, but then drew off his wet clothes, grateful that they seemed to be the only lodgers in the hayloft. He spread the dripping garments out across a dusty beam to dry; when he turned around, he found Javert staring at him, his face unreadable.

“The brand is healing well?” Javert asked, and then came closer.

Valjean had to keep from flinching back when Javert reached out. He stared at the ground, his heart racing in his chest when Javert's fingers traced around the J that had been burned into his skin. It still ached a little, but the agony of the first day was gone. Nevertheless the touch was nearly unbearable.

“It is healing well, monsieur,” Valjean said when he could trust himself to speak again.

Javert's fingers felt hot again his chilled flesh. Again Valjean thought of the hardness he had felt when they had ridden together. Javert owned him. Javert had bought him. Could he now want...?

“Good,” Javert said curtly.

A moment later, a blanket was shoved into Valjean's arms. Confused, but nevertheless grateful, Valjean wrapped it around himself. Then Javert took hold of the chain again and used it to tie Valjean to the beam across which his wet clothes had been spread.

“Sleep,” Javert said next, and then went to make himself a comfortable bed in the straw, just out of reach.

Confused, Valjean watched for a second. Were his hands not to be chained tonight? After a moment, he decided that it would not be wise to question Javert. Instead, he followed Javert's example and settled down, the blanket wrapped tightly around himself to protect him from the prickly straw.

It was not yet night-time, but it was gloomy beneath the roof. Outside, the sky was dark with clouds, and the stable was quiet except for the shifting and nickering of horses beneath them. He was chilled to the bone, but now, with the dry blanket wrapped around him and clean straw piled around him, his exhausted body gradually grew warmer. His foot still ached, but for now, he was grateful to be allowed to rest.

In the middle of the night, Valjean woke all of a sudden. For a moment, he remained silent, blinking against the tiredness as he tried to make sense of what had disturbed his sleep. Then he felt it again.

A touch. The softest rustling of the straw.

Valjean froze, his eyes wide open as he strained to listen. Someone was close to him. Very close. Had now Javert come to take what he had bought?

Valjean's heart was racing in his chest, his blood rushing through his veins so that it echoed as a dull roar in his ears. All his senses were heightened by the panic that had gripped him.

It would be Javert's right, he told himself even as fear clenched around his chest. Javert had spent two hundred francs on him. Javert could do whatever he pleased, and no one would protest.

Would Javert demand such a thing? Valjean had felt him pressed against his back. Javert had been aroused, and even though he had not acted on it then, perhaps he had simply waited for the night...

Someone was breathing in the darkness, fast and shallow. Javert must be crouching over him.

If Valjean begged him not to ask such a thing of him, would Javert listen? Or would that too be seen as a convict's rebellion against the man who had every right to demand of him whatever he pleased?

After another second of agony, Valjean turned around, ready to plead with Javert no matter what the consequences—but the shadow above him was small and slight. This was not Javert.

Relief rushed through Valjean, a split-second of that terrible fear falling away only to be supplanted by a grim resolve.

His arms shot out. He grasped the shoulders of the intruder who yelled in shock and immediately tried to break free. But Valjean held onto him until he heard Javert shout; a second later, a lamp was lit, and he found himself staring into a pale, angry face. A boy, his face smudged with dirt. Was it the boy who had brought their food earlier?

Then he saw that the boy was clutching Javert's bag. A thief then. 

Valjean sat up and calmly pulled it out of the boy's hand. “A thief, monsieur,” he said, leaning forward as far as the chain allowed to hand it over to Javert.

Not by coincidence, the grip of his other hand on the boy weakened. A second later, he had wriggled out of Valjean's grasp and raced back down the ladder, vanishing as quickly as he had come.

“A thief!” Javert exclaimed, and then he cursed when he saw the boy flee. “Damn you, Valjean! You let him go!”

“He surprised me,” Valjean said in apology, and then, before Javert could question him further, quickly added, “I didn't know what was going on when I woke. I heard him breathing, but it was too dark to see; I thought he was—”

“He was what, an assassin come to murder you? You overestimate your own importance, Jean Valjean,” Javert said with disgust, quickly looking through his bag. After a moment, when Valjean remained silent in embarrassment, he raised his head to fix him with a suspicious glare.

“No? You thought you had found an accomplice then, someone who could be bribed into freeing you from your chains while I slept? Oh, what a fool I was; I should have put those shackles back on the moment you—”

“I thought it was you,” Valjean said hastily. “Inspector Javert.” Heat rose to his face. He did not dare to meet Javert's eyes.

After a moment, there was the rustling of straw. When he finally looked up after all, Javert had moved closer, bringing the lamp with him. Then Javert gripped the chain right where it connected to his collar.

“You thought it was me,” Javert repeated, his voice cold. “What is that supposed to mean? Out with it, Valjean. You thought I had come to rob you? To murder you? You are ridiculous. Why you would—”

“I thought,” Valjean said and swallowed heavily, “that you had come to...” His voice trailed off.

Nervously, his eyes skimmed past Javert's groin. Wrapped in a blanket, he could not make out whether Javert was still hard. Nevertheless, the gesture seemed to be enough to make Javert flinch. Then his jaw tightened and his eyes grew dark.

“To collect what you had paid for,” Valjean finished, his voice little more than a nervous whisper.

He could not back away. Javert still held the chain so tightly that he could feel the collar bite into his skin. The only sound that broke the silence was the panicked thudding of his heart.

“And what,” Javert finally said, his voice taut with rage, “makes you think that I would desire such a thing? That I would—”

Valjean swallowed. For a moment, he thought of answering truthfully. He had felt Javert against his backside, hard as any man who had slept curled against him in the bagne. What difference was there? Javert might mock him, but had yesterday not proven that in the end, Javert was just like any other man?

Then he lowered his eyes, choosing to remain silent. Surely anything he could come up with would just make Javert more furious.

Finally, with a sound of disgust, Javert released the chain. “I'll have a word with that innkeeper tomorrow,” he muttered darkly. “And you...”

Javert had threatened him with the lash before. Would he make good on that threat now?

Valjean shifted uncomfortably, still too aware of the fact that he was naked beneath the blanket, that he was chained and in Javert's power. If Javert wanted, all he had to do was to pull the blanket aside. And then, there were worse things Javert could do. Had he not been threatened with mutilation before? Would it not be more sensible to swallow his protests and give himself over to whatever Javert might demand?

“Sleep. And this had better be the last time you disturb me at night,” Javert said through clenched teeth before he moved back to his own bed in the straw.

Relieved, frightened and suddenly feeling unbearably powerless, Valjean buried himself in the straw once more. The blanket was scratchy against his bare skin, the worn wool keeping him warm, although within him, cold had spread at Javert's words.

He curled up in the darkness when Javert snuffed the light. If Javert wanted to, he thought again, if Javert wanted...

He shivered despite the blanket and the straw, remembering Boucard's hands on him. There had been little talk, back then. There had only been touches. The warmth of another body pressed against his. He had not thought of it in so long, but now, for the first time in many years, he wished he could hide his face in his arms and allow another to possess him until the cold biting at the marrow of his bones was driven away at least for one night.


	10. Chapter 10

“Show me your shoe,” Javert commanded in the morning, still in a bad mood.

The mare was watching attentively, well rested after a night in the warm stable, and already packed with his bags once more. It was early yet. After an entirely unsatisfying dispute with the innkeeper, who kept pretending that her boy had run away during the night, Javert was eager to be on his way.

It was Valjean who had brushed, saddled and then loaded the mare. Javert, who had watched in a cloud of grim displeasure, had not failed to notice that the man was still limping.

Of course, it could be a ploy. With Jean Valjean it probably was. Still, as much as Javert wanted to be on his way, he could not make himself ignore the event that had led to all the unpleasantness of yesterday's ride.

Valjean held on to the wall as he drew the shoe from his foot. As soon as he lifted it, the sole gaped open once more, revealing that it was almost completely ripped away. Javert took hold of it with a scowl. They'd have to find a cobbler—if it was even worth repairing the cheap, worn thing they'd given Valjean in Toulon.

“Your foot?” Javert then demanded, eyes narrowed at the way Valjean tried to keep his weight off it. If the man now wanted to trick Javert to go lighter on him by feigning injury...

Javert's bad mood increased once he had grabbed hold of Valjean's foot to inspect it. He must have cut it open on one of the stones when he was struggling up the muddy path. Javert could see a large, painful looking gash. He cursed under his breath when he released Valjean, only to tie him to the wall by his chain.

“Wait here,” he snapped, and then went off to deal with the innkeeper once more.

When he returned with a small flask of brandy and strips of clean linen, Valjean was obediently waiting where he had left him. He did not flinch even when Javert, teeth clenched at this new interruption of his travel plans, set out to clean the wound.

“This should have been cleaned and bandaged yesterday,” Javert muttered. “Trust a convict to find ways to ever cause new trouble.”

He poured brandy over the wound, feeling a certain gratification when Valjean trembled. The man did not make a sound even when Javert grimly wound the strips of linen around his foot, although Javert could feel the straining of his muscles.

The skin along the cut had been reddened and inflamed. Javert did not like what he had to do, but it could not be changed. Perhaps he should have taken the longer way along the river yesterday—but it was too late for regret.

“We'll find a cobbler in one of those villages,” Javert murmured, thinking about the road he had planned to take. “Or someone selling a pair of shoes.”

When he looked up, he found Valjean staring at him, his face pale and his eyes unreadable.

“Thank you,” Valjean said after a moment. 

Javert made a derisive sound as he released Valjean's foot. “Put that shoe on again. Fix it with this,” he commanded and pushed a string of rough hemp into Valjean's hands.

Then Javert walked toward the mare, eyeing her critically. Valjean had prepared her well enough for the day's journey: her coat and her hooves were clean, the tack was in place, the bags securely tied.

Javert led her out of the stable, then waited for Valjean to catch up.

“Into the saddle,” he said and then, when Valjean did not move, barked the order again. “Into the saddle I said! Don't make even more trouble. I've had quite enough of this from you!”

Quietly, Valjean complied. Once he was seated, shoulders hunched and eyes cast down, Javert took hold of the chain and fingered it with satisfaction. Certainly Valjean would not dare to attempt escape as long as this was securely in Javert's hands—unless Valjean desired to strangle himself.

Javert grabbed hold of the horse's reins as well. Then he led them away from the inn that had sheltered them for the night, choosing once more the road along the Saône.

They passed three villages until they came upon a traveling tinkerer by chance. Javert, who was feeling more cross with every passing moment he had to walk on the dusty road in the heat of the day while Valjean sat in subdued silence on his horse, was able to barter for a new set of shoes, trading in the old pair along with a handful of coin.

“A costly purchase you are proving to be,” he muttered darkly once they were able to move onward, Valjean still in the saddle. “Truly, it was folly to buy you in the first place. What's it going to be next, Valjean? A new set of clothes? A horse of your own? We'll have you working for your coin soon enough once we are back home, have no doubt of that. This life of leisure will not last.”

By the time the sun stood high in the sky, Javert's bad mood had deepened. When they had rested at noon, he had eaten his bread while consulting his map. There was no denying it—they were no longer traveling as quickly as he had anticipated.

Once more he gave Valjean a considering look. Javert had seen the wound with his own eyes. He knew he could not force the man to run next to the horse, at least not without causing further trouble. How much costlier would it be should the gash become infected and Jean Valjean in need of a doctor?

Briefly, Javert toyed with the idea of finding a cheap mule in one of the villages as he kept walking throughout the afternoon, ignoring the lengthening shadows and the way he sometimes caught Valjean giving him tentative looks. Even the thought was madness. Javert had already spent more than he owned just to buy the man. And now he needed to spend more on lodging and provisions for the entirety of their journey to Montreuil, not to speak of expenses like the pair of shoes or the brandy.

No. Javert had made the decision to purchase the man, now he would have to live with the consequences. Even if it meant walking all the way back to Montreuil on foot.

“Are we not stopping for the night?” Valjean finally inquired, his voice soft and respectful. Even so, Javert found himself scowling as he met his eyes.

“What business is it of yours? We stop when I say so,” he said in irritation, tightening his grip on the chain even further, just in case Valjean got the wrong idea.

The sky had deepened to a dark blue. The sun had nearly finished sinking below the horizon. They passed a small hovel. For a moment, Javert considered lodging in the straw again, but dogged determination made him continue. He had wanted to reach the town of Beaune today, and by God, he would! Neither devil nor Jean Valjean would interfere with his plans.

An hour past sunset, with the moon high in the sky and the stars bright, Javert still found himself walking on the road along the banks of the Saône. How much further could it be? Under normal circumstances, they would have reached the small town and an inn well before sunset.

Javert could feel Valjean's eyes resting on him again. He ignored the man.

Finally, Valjean spoke once more, his voice uncertain. “We will go faster if both of us ride...”

In return, Javert snapped “Silence.”

Javert took another step. Then, suddenly, he halted, his grip on reins and chain forcing the mare to stop as well. Seething and without speaking a single word, he proceeded to mount the horse.

His jaw clenched, he nudged her to walk on, doing his best to ignore the broad back of Valjean that pressed against him. Valjean was so close that he could smell his sweat and see the fine, short hairs that curled against his nape, damp with perspiration.

Along with the sun, the heat of the day had fled. A breeze had sprung up, and in the cool night air that carried the scent of warm soil and mowed hay, Valjean's body exuded heat everywhere it pressed against him.

The mare walked slowly and patiently. With every step, he could feel her warm body shift between his thighs. With every step, he could also feel the heat of Valjean's skin and the firmness of his body, powerful muscles flexing against Javert's own limbs.

He stared at where the collar encircled Valjean's neck. The light of the moon was enough to make the iron glint; memory sufficed to see the slightly reddened skin where the iron had chafed when Javert had been forced to use the chain to remind Valjean of his place.

Once more he thought of the ease with which Valjean had pulled the chain from his hands. Javert thought of the years in Montreuil, the false mayor's charity, the bite of the lies he had spouted then. The man was a convict, a thief, a liar. Had Javert not seen him for who he truly was, so many years ago: the chains, the red blouse, the red cap?

It was still easy to conjure up the memory of the galley-slave—but it made no difference now. With every step the horse took, Javert's body came into contact with the body of Jean Valjean. He could feel the heat of the convict's skin even through the layers of clothing. Likewise, an insidious heat began to rise in his own blood, a prickling along his spine, fiery thorns digging into his thighs, and between his legs, his flesh hardened.

When he felt Valjean freeze, Javert closed his eyes for a moment in furious dismay. Would this man never cease to torment him? What cruel God had decided to put Javert into this position once more while punishing him with a body that proved disobedient for the first time in his life?

In the distance, lights had appear. It was perhaps another hour's ride before they would reach the town where Javert had hoped to find lodgings. He remained silent for the entire duration of the ride, seething in humiliation while heat throbbed low between his legs.

He did not speak with Valjean even when they finally arrived. Instead, fate had seen fit to give him a bed and a way to secure Valjean on the floor for the night, so that Javert was able to enjoy a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

He did not dream, but when he woke, Javert had half risen to hardness once more, his state hidden beneath the blanket. In his frustration, he almost felt tempted to give in and make an end of it with his own hand—instead, he chose to ignore the tormenting pulse of desire.

Soon the freezing water he found for his morning ablutions took care of the sorry business just as well. Afterward, Javert markedly ignored Valjean for most of the day. Once more he was forced to leave the horse to the convict; this time, better prepared for the difference in the length of their strides, Javert set out at a fast pace, keeping it up for most of the day despite his aching feet.

This time, they reached the town he had aimed for just at sunset. Any gratification he might have felt despite the weariness of his limbs was doused when he took a look at Valjean's foot and found that the gash was hot and swollen, necessitating a visit to an apothecary where Javert was begrudgingly forced to part with more coin to receive a jar of salve.

Javert grimaced when later, in their room, he prodded the gash and Valjean flinched in reaction.

“Should have let me clean it when it happened,” Javert said with little satisfaction as he contemplated further days of walking.

Perhaps he would have to amend his plans. Surely he could not keep up this pace, and Valjean would not be able to walk for a few more days, unless Javert wanted to chance further injury.

“Such trouble you are proving to be, Jean Valjean,” he muttered as he spread the salve along the inflamed cut, then bandaged the foot. “Of course, I should have known.”

“Thank you,” Valjean said quietly once more when Javert released him, swallowing as he searched for words. “I know you did not have to do that. I am grateful—”

“Oh, save it,” Javert muttered, vexed by the way all his carefully devised plans for the fastest and easiest way to return to Montreuil had been destroyed.

There was no helping it. Javert had assured his superiors that he would return by the end of the month. Either he would have to rent an additional horse or a carriage—and with what money?—or they would need to share the horse once more.

A shudder ran through him as he contemplated several days in such close proximity. The prospect was utterly repugnant—and yet, what else was there to do?

Still annoyed, Javert prepared for the night. Valjean was sleeping on a straw mattress on the floor, chained to the wall. Javert was too weary and irritated. Now even the thought of having to share his bed after sharing the horse made his skin itch with distaste. Given the state of his foot, there was no way Valjean could run. It would be safe enough for now to leave the convict on the floor.

Despite Javert's exhaustion, sleep came late. Several times, he turned in his bed, listening to the soft sound of Valjean's breathing in the darkness. Doubt crept up on Javert as he imagined the man sleeping in his own rooms in Montreuil, but he quickly squashed it. He would find a way to keep Valjean busy once they returned. Surely, once this journey was over, everything would return to the normal state of things. Javert would make certain that Valjean learned his place. There would be none of the constant frustration of these days, none of the trouble Valjean kept causing, none of his own body's frustrating revolt...

When Javert woke, the sun had only barely begun to rise. The first rays of dawn lit the room, the gloom slowly receding.

Javert could not remember his dreams, but in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, his limbs felt heavy, filled with a pleasant warmth. He exhaled, shifting beneath the covers, his mind still hazy with the dream he could not quite recall.

He only came to full awareness when his hand brushed his swollen shaft. At the touch, a shock ran through him. Pleasure made him want to buck into his touch. Instinctively, his fingers tightened, and he could only barely manage to swallow back the groan that rose in his throat.

Immediately, horror rose within him as he became aware of where he was. Valjean was sleeping in the same room. Had Valjean heard...?

His heart pounding in his chest, he waited, but everything remained silent. Gradually, he calmed. His blood was still rushing through his veins. The miserable throbbing between his legs had not ceased. With dread Javert thought of the day's journey that was to come. Would this sudden affliction continue to torment him? Had this been caused by the unwonted lassitude of long days with little to busy himself save the location of the next inn?

Javert took a deep breath. His fingers were still clasped around his flesh. He could not bear another repeat of what had happened yesterday. Perhaps, if he gave in to appease his body, this need would be driven from him, and he could journey on in peace...

Valjean had still not moved nor made a sound, except for the soft breathing.

With his lips tightly pressed together to remain quiet, Javert began to stroke himself. He kept his mind carefully blank, thinking only of the relief it was to finally allow this fire within him to burn, the pressure growing and growing while his heart kept racing. His heartbeat seemed impossible loud. Surely Valjean had to be able to hear...?

His shaft throbbed in his hand, a spike of heat erupting somewhere within—and just like that, the terrible pressure of days of journeying finally spilled free together with the spend that came dripping over his knuckles.

Stillness immediately returned in the aftermath. With the flames banked, a sickening cold began to spread in his stomach instead. Disgusted at his body's weakness, Javert lay in the silence of the room, his heartbeat slowing down until at last, he became aware that the room was silent. It was _too_ silent.

He could no longer hear the sound of Valjean's breathing.

Horror rose within Javert. He wiped his soiled hand on his shirt. Then, slowly, still trying not to make a sound, he turned his head.

Valjean was resting on the floor where he had chained him. By all appearances, he seemed still asleep. Nevertheless, Javert thought he could make out a certain tension of his shoulders. The low, relaxed breathing of a resting man was no longer audible, as though Valjean, too, was careful not to make a sound.

Suddenly, Javert found himself filled by the terrible certainty that Valjean was awake—worse, that he knew what Javert had busied himself with beneath the blanket.

It was of no concern to Valjean, Javert tried to tell himself, his heart inexplicably racing once more. Why should he care what the man thought? Valjean was a convict, a man he had bought; Valjean had no rights, least of all a right to complain about such personal acts.

Nevertheless, the humiliation of having Valjean know was bitter on his tongue. Javert could not say why, but it felt to him as if once more, the convict had won a game Javert had not known he was playing.


	11. Chapter 11

Furtive sounds of pleasure, quiet, stolen moments of weary men finding relief at their own hands—these things had become familiar to Valjean in the bagne. Nevertheless, he had not expected to experience such moments all over again, but this time as Javert's prisoner. His cheeks burning, Valjean rested silently on his straw mattress, pretending that he had not woken, pretending that he did not know what was going on only a few feet away.

And perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps Javert was simply agitated by a dream...

But even as he thought that, he knew that it was not true. The soft but regular rustling, the way Javert's breathing had sped up—all of this was very familiar to Valjean.

Had now come the time that Javert would try to make use of him after all? For one moment, Valjean saw himself offering his assistance to Javert. In the bagne, such a thing had been currency. Perhaps it might be the same here. And yet, what could be gained from it?

There was only one thing Valjean wanted: to fulfill his promise to Fantine and retrieve the child from the innkeepers in Montfermeil. And that was one thing Javert would not grant him, no matter what Valjean might offer in return. No, it was best to remain here, silent and still, his eyes firmly closed, and pretend that he did not know what was going on only a few feet away.

Perhaps it was even a good sign. Was this not proof that Javert would not sully himself by touching a convict?

Still, why that hardness which Valjean had felt against his own body for much of the ride, if Javert had no taste for the comforts of the bagne?

In his confusion and fear, Valjean became aware too late that Javert had finished. The sudden silence in the room turned oppressive as he waited breathlessly for any sound. Did Javert know that Valjean was no longer asleep?

His heart thudding in his chest, Valjean began to wonder what punishment might be due for such an infraction. Would Javert believe that Valjean had listened with lascivious intent? Would Javert once more accuse him of having brought this about intentionally?

In the end, he was allowed to remain on the floor. He listened to the soft sounds of Javert rising, washing, dressing, still pretending that he was asleep until Javert's boot nudged him and he was forced to rise as well.

Javert's face was grim as a storm cloud. He remained silent even while he pushed the salve and clean strips of linen into Valjean's hands, keeping a suspicious eye on him as Valjean cleaned and bandage his foot anew.

Once or twice, Valjean's eyes strayed towards the bed before he quickly lowered them again in confused embarrassment. Perhaps it had just been his imagination—perhaps Javert had simply shifted beneath his covers, caught in a dream, and nothing untoward had happened.

Javert did not join him on the horse on this or the following two days. Instead, Javert walked briskly, setting out early and only allowing a short break at noon. Every day, they would find the inn Javert had aimed for shortly after nightfall. Valjean was no longer forced to share Javert's bed either. During the nights, Javert would always find a way to secure him to the wall, trusting in the chains and no doubt the injury to make escape impossible.

On the third day, Javert's mood had lifted considerably. Valjean's foot had been healing well, and they had both spent the day riding and walking, changing every few miles. It was warm, but not oppressively so. Valjean was not yet able to walk as quickly and tirelessly as he had before that day in the storm; still, they made good progress. When they rested at noon, Valjean was allowed to cool his feet in a swiftly flowing brook while Javert inspected the cloudless sky with satisfaction.

The rest of the day passed in much the same way. They did not talk, save when Javert ordered him to switch position with him. Altogether, it was perhaps the most pleasant a day traveling in a collar and chain could be.

This changed when they reached the town where Javert had planned to stop for the night. They had made it as far north as Chaource, a day from Troyes. At a first glance, the local inn looked small but clean, the innkeeper was friendly and the smell of rabbit stew irresistible.

And yet, it seemed that their luck should not last. Apologetically, the innkeeper led them to a small chamber that was not much larger than a cupboard; there was a narrow bed and a rickety table that held a washstand, and little more. There was barely enough place for Valjean to stretch out on the floor—most importantly, there was nothing for Javert to secure him to. And so the day that had begun so well ended in terse, silent annoyance with Valjean on the bed, the chain looped around the headboard and then connected to the chain between his wrists once more.

Perhaps tomorrow Javert would take the mare again and he would walk, Valjean contemplated tiredly as he listened to Javert settling down next to him. They would return to those early days of their journey: Javert would be pleased and leave him alone apart from the occasional jab, and Valjean would walk. At the end of the day, they would both be so tired that they would sleep deeply, without dreams—without any of the troubling and shameful occurrences of the past nights.

Valjean closed his eyes, eager to escape this room and the oppressive heat of the body next to him. It took no time at all to fall asleep; his body was exhausted, his mind eager to leave the chains that tied him to the bed.

In Toulon, he had been tied in different ways. In Toulon, there had been the chain at his feet and the press of bodies to his left and his right. There had only been a plank beneath him. In the summer, it was sweltering, in winter, it was freezing.

His first winter, Valjean learned to be grateful for the warm bodies surrounding him. He had already learned, confused and lost in this terrible machinery that seemed to have swallowed him, not to refuse the touches that were offered. He had not been touched in such a way before, but as much as the rough hand of Boucard on him had frightened and shocked him at first, every time that large palm slipped into his trousers he grew hard at it, spilling himself quickly when his chainmate caressed him.

What Boucard wanted in return he had given him too. Despite his discomfort, his inexperience—despite the hundreds of bodies with them in the salle, the ears listening to his groans, the eyes watching him strain—a part of him had begun to cling to that comfort, the heat of Boucard's embrace in this cold that made his breath escape in little clouds. Dimly, he sometimes considered that he might be stronger than Boucard, that he could push him away if he tried. That he ought to try—that he did not belong in this place and that everything he did here, every moment of shame, every day full of injustices, was caused by some grand and invisible audience that stood outside these walls, causing his plight and then blaming him for it, watching only to point and laugh.

"Eh, Jean," the rough, sleepy voice of Boucard grumbled into his ear. "Stop thinking so loudly. Some of us are trying to sleep."

To his left, someone was chuckling. Another was snoring. It was too dark to see, but he could feel the familiar pressure of Boucard against him: the weight of his chainmate's body, the hard muscles after years of backbreaking work, the scent of sweat, tobacco and arousal...

A hand slid beneath his shirt. It slid to his belly, then trailed downwards, slow but familiar with his body. It pushed into his trousers. Valjean was not hard yet, but now began to stir at Boucard's touch. He could feel his chainmate's hardness—that, too, was familiar, and not unwelcome. Valjean was cold and restless, and if there was one thing he had learned in this place, then it was to take what fleeting moments of kindness he was offered.

Not that Boucard offered a kindness—but still. His palm was rough against Valjean's skin, but it drew up heat from the core of him as it slowly rubbed along the length of his shaft. Valjean felt his heart speed up as his body was roused. Then he could feel Boucard press closer, his breath hot against his nape, his shaft hot, hard, still welcome even as it slid between his thighs.

"Least you can do is making sure I'll have an easier time falling asleep again." Boucard chuckled softly against his ear, his voice still rough with sleep though his fingers stroked Valjean with skillful urgency.

Valjean closed his eyes, his mouth parting as he released a choked sound of need. His muscles tightened; Boucard made an approving sound while thrusting against him, his prick hard as iron as it slid between his thighs. When Boucard's fingers clenched, Valjean moaned again. He was so close, so close... Valjean reached down himself, palming his balls as his chainmate stroked him, shivering there on the brink. Wedged between sleeping men, the urgency and the need in him kept rising and rising until it seemed too much to bear.

Valjean arched, his lips parting for another choked gasp. He craned his head, ready to beg if Boucard would just finish him off. He was hard too, Valjean could feel the weight and the size of his swollen length as it ground against him, and then Valjean opened his eyes, a plea on his lips—

Everything was dark.

With his heart racing in his chest, Valjean blinked, breathless and confused, nearly dizzy with the need that still throbbed within him. Was this the salle? For one terrifying moment, he did not know where he was.

Then a cloud moved past the moon. It grew a little brighter, and to his horror, Valjean found himself staring straight into the face of Javert.

It was Javert in whose arms he had dreamed—Javert whom he had very nearly woken with that terrible dream!

A heartbeat later, cold sweat dripping down his neck, he realized that it was also Javert who had rested against him. It was not Boucard he had felt in his dream. It had been Javert who had pressed himself against his thigh, his arousal as rigid and terrifying as Javert's nightstick.

For one moment, Valjean could not move. When he had tried to turn, he had shifted so that Javert was now pressed against his hip. In the sparse moonlight, Valjean could not make out his expression, but when Javert remained silent, his terror began to recede after a while.

Javert was still asleep. Javert had not woken. Javert did not know what Valjean had dreamed; most importantly, Javert had not pressed against him with sinister intention.

His heart still pounding, Valjean tried to settle down again without disturbing Javert, facing away from him. If Javert woke to find Valjean like this... Would he believe that Valjean had tried to accost him? Or that Valjean had tried to bring this about, to offer himself in such a way as the only bribe he had left?

Or worse, would Javert—who had bought him, who owned him, whose brand even now ached on his chest over his heart—not simply seek to satisfy his own undeniable urges, should he wake like this?

Terrified, Valjean waited for what was to happen. The collar and chain held him tied to the bed, unable to move away. Javert's arousal pressed against his skin. Valjean had shifted enough that the shirt had exposed his thigh and part of his backside; Javert's prick now pressed against the crease between his thighs, as hard and merciless as the man himself, searing him even through the fabric of Javert's shirt.

What if Javert would decide to make an end of this torment when he woke like this? What if he would blame Valjean for his state? What if—

Confused, miserable, Valjean shivered despite the warmth of the small room, sickened by the hardness that still pounded between his own legs. He prayed that Javert would not wake until it had abated. For what reason did those dreams of the bagne return now to haunt him? He had left the galleys and its sins behind. Had he not knelt before the door of the Bishop's house and wept at the weight of his wretchedness? Had he not sought since then to become a better man than he had been?

They had put a collar and chains on him once more, but his soul had been bought by the Bishop already. Javert could not have it; neither could the bagne. He had no need of those comforts now. It was not the needs of his body that mattered anymore. Certainly, the way to holiness lay in overcoming these things, as he had done for so many years now. It was the soul that should concern him.

Ignoring the hungry ache between his legs, he tried to pray, but soon found that the shame was too great. Grace seemed far away in those moments, and once more he felt himself trapped in the wretched body that had woken in the bagne.


	12. Chapter 12

Heat was pounding through Javert. A low, deep throb reverberated through his chest, originating somewhere below his stomach, sizzling up the inside of his thighs, rushing up his spine, concentrating between his legs. He was pressed against something pliant and warm. In fact, it felt exactly right, and as he exhaled, his hips moved so that his prick nestled more perfectly against the object next to him.

Hazily, he swam up from the depth of his dreams. Even when he blinked tiredly, not quite awake yet, the pleasure did not abate. Neither did the gratifying sensation of rubbing himself against the warm, soft plane that felt so inviting.

He took a deep breath, a low sound stuck in his throat as his hips moved forward again—and then, in a split second of sudden shock, he became aware that he was in bed with Jean Valjean, and that the accommodating warmth that cradled his aroused prick so perfectly was in fact Jean Valjean's backside, pressed against him in invitation—

 _Was_ it invitation?

His heart skipped a beat, horror taking the place of the hazy contentment that had filled him before. Suddenly fully awake, he froze.

Somehow, in his sleep, his flesh had stirred once more—and, worse than before, this time he had pressed himself against Valjean, nearly rutting against him like one of those beasts in the bagne.

For one moment, a wicked lust seemed to wrestle with his sense of what he knew to be right. How easy it would be, that voice whispered, to remain like this. Valjean was sleeping, he might never notice as Javert found release. And even if he did... Had Javert not bought Valjean? Was it not true that he could use the man however he desired, even in such a way?

Lust flared up at the thought, but with it came disgust at his body's reaction. For some perverse reason, the thought of Valjean offering himself to others in the bagne, the thought of Javert making use of him in the same way, had roused him even further.

Had he truly sunk so low? He, Javert, who had chosen and kept choosing every day of his life to stand on the other side of the bars, to keep society from what criminals like Valjean might unleash upon it?

Such behavior might not be unheard of in the bagne. It might even be overlooked—to keep the galley-slaves docile, Valjean claimed, though Javert was still outraged by the claim. No, the behavior was so wide-spread and so deeply rooted in the very nature of the bagnards that it could hardly be expected of the guards to keep it from happening. 

Were they supposed to station guards in the salle day and night? How many men it would take to make sure that the convicts did not abuse each other like animals?

Javert took a shallow breath, his thoughts suddenly returning to his current predicament. It was true, the thought of ridding himself of this terrible burden by giving in to whatever despicable cravings had been roused in his body was tempting. But perhaps this was to be expected, given his roots. Had he not resisted that criminal caste all of his life? It took discipline, but it was not impossible. And should he now fail where criminals like Valjean had all too easily given in? Unthinkable!

Javert rolled to his back. His prick ached; he ignored it, grimly denying himself even the memory of that enticing, warm backside. And how had he woken in such a position anyway? Had Valjean thought to mock him for the way Javert had pulled the details of Valjean's despicable acts in the bagne from him?

After a few minutes, when his body seemed to have no intention of returning to its natural state, he sat up with an exasperated sound. Valjean did not move, and that seemed as good as an admission of guilt to Javert. 

“Oh, stop your games. I know you're awake!” Javert watched with grim gratification as Valjean's shoulders tensed before the man reluctantly acknowledged his words and opened his eyes.

“I've warned you,” Javert continued relentlessly. “I've warned you again and again. I've told you I will not play your games. How often did I tell you that this will end badly for you? And here we are. Are you going to tell me now that this is not one of your tricks? Are you in all seriousness going to proclaim your innocence in this matter; will there be yet more useless pleas for compassion, for mercy, for—”

There were no pleas forthcoming. Instead Valjean tensed further, his shoulders hunching together, and even as he spoke, a sudden, terrible suspicion begin to fill Javert. He stopped abruptly in the middle of his sentence, then took hold of the blanket once more and pulled it back.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, satisfaction warring with disgust in his voice at the sight that met his eyes.

Valjean was aroused as well. It was undeniable. His swollen shaft was tenting his shirt; it was quite impossible to miss.

Suddenly Javert found himself short of breath, his heart pounding as he stared at the incriminating sight.

“Then it was a ploy indeed. You think you can offer yourself to me in such a way?” he said, not bothering to hide his derision. “You truly think that I will be so easy to deceive; that you can distract me, trick me, play me like some grisette plays with a student, and then use your chance to escape? Do you truly believe that I will fall for your games, Valjean?”

Valjean swallowed. He shifted restlessly beneath Javert's merciless gaze, then tried to sit up as much as he could, bound as he still was.

“Javert,” he began slowly, his voice calm although he would not quite meet Javert's eyes. “Inspector Javert. It is—I have to apologize, I did not intend... You will not believe me, and I do not know how I can apologize. If you would... it would be easier for both of us if you made me sleep on the floor, monsieur—”

“On the floor!” Javert echoed in mockery. “Of course that would make it easier. Easier for you to escape! That you would even ask such a thing! So am I then to believe that you could not help yourself? That you were hoping for my touch to ease your loneliness? That there is no ploy, no trickery, but just what has to be expected if one purchases a bagne flower like Jean Valjean?”

He sneered as he looked Valjean up and down. Valjean was pale, softening even as Javert watched, and a sudden fury rose within Javert at that sight.

“How often have I warned you now?” He leaned forward, one hand gripping the chain close to Valjean's collar, the other clenching around Valjean's balls until the man froze with a groan of pain. “This seems to be more of a problem than I anticipated. Will you force me to spend yet more coin on you to fix this? It can be arranged, Valjean. With these gone, perhaps you will be free of distractions. Yes; you'll be able to sleep without dreaming of seducing good and honest men. You should be grateful, Valjean. You should—”

“Please,” Valjean said, shuddering beneath Javert's painful grip. “It was not intended as seduction. I dreamed of the bagne, not of you. And when I woke, I felt—”

He fell silent, and Javert became once more aware of his own disobedient flesh, irritation filling him at the way it still throbbed relentlessly.

“So that is how it's going to be?” Javert's fingers tightened further, squeezing hard around the tender globes. “You intend to blame this on me? You, who admitted to a thousand disgusting—

The chain strained as Valjean shivered. “I do not blame,” he said thickly.

As Javert watched, sweat trickled down his brow. Javert did not loosen his grip on the vulnerable balls.

“Monsieur, whatever you might believe, I had no intention to—I was not—”

“Yes? Out with it, Valjean,” Javert snapped, almost enjoying himself in this position if not for the way that a foul desire was still pulsing through him with the same inexorable heat as his fury. “Let's have the truth out now.”

“I was not trying to seduce or entice,” Valjean said, breathing heavily. At last, he raised his eyes to Javert's. “The truth is, monsieur, that I am afraid you will demand this of me.”

Valjean paused, his chest heaving for breath as Javert was silent, taken aback.

“I am not talking about compassion or mercy. I know you can do as you please. I promised I would not cause you further trouble. But you must believe that I—that I wouldn't offer such a thing. Not to you. Inspector Javert.”

Javert's mind was reeling at the sudden confession, indignation warring with a sudden annoyance he could not quite trace.

“Not to me?” he repeated, his voice dangerously low. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Valjean's eyes closed for a short moment. He shifted in his chains, shuddering again when Javert's fingers tightened in warning.

“I mean no disrespect. It is just, monsieur, that you...” Valjean swallowed. Then began again. “You think it is an offer, a transaction. That I might seek to bribe you. But even in the bagne, it was never... I did not sell myself. Perhaps it was weakness, to reach out for a moment of comfort, a kind touch. But it was never more than that, monsieur. And I...”

Here he paused again and nervously licked his lips. “I would not dare to expect kindness from you, Inspector Javert,” he finished at last, his words little more than a whisper.

Javert exhaled, his mind still reeling. Valjean was still close, too close—pulled forward by his own hand on the chain, so that even now Javert could clearly see every shiver that ran through the man, every labored breath, ever drop of perspiration.

All of a sudden the weight and the heat of Valjean's balls in his palm seemed unbearable. Javert's hand shook as unbidden, images of the bagne rose once more in his mind.

It was easy to imagine, all too easy. How often had he observed what Valjean had described? And could he truly be certain that it was not Jean Valjean himself he had seen back then? One man beneath another in the mockery of an embrace, the animal urgency, the violence of sudden lust erupting in the salle, moans and grunts disturbing the sleep of others who would shout filthy things in return... 

In Toulon, he had seen order maintained as well as he could. He had spent years watching in disgust while keeping himself apart. In all those years that he had been forced to keep guard—in the bagne, in brothels, in public parks—he had observed with perfect stillness.

Then, the heart in his breast had seemed to him as firm and formidable as the stony core of a statue: it could not be shaken, it would never feel such shameful passion, would never sully itself in similar ways. And yet, now that these imagines had been forcefully pulled from his memory, it was impossible to hide them away once more.

Those men he had seen in the bagne—had Valjean been one of them? Was it a true memory, or was it just his imagination that could show him the image so clearly, bright and painted with bold, masterful strokes: the powerful thighs bending, the strong body straining, Jean Valjean, that devil of a man who kept vexing him, giving himself over to the rough touch of some brute who relentlessly took possession of him—that deceitful mouth that spouted words of contrite apology at last blessedly silent except for throaty moans...

Abruptly Javert moved back, releasing Valjean.

“Kindness,” he scoffed, his brows drawing together as he looked at Valjean. “Have we not all had enough of that from you? But it is as I told you before: it is very easy to be kind. And you can expect no kindness from me. No, I will be just. And make no mistake, Valjean— _this_ is just. In truth, I have already shown too much kindness on this journey. Don't think it weakness. Don't think you can continue to play your games.”

Valjean closed his eyes, looking tormented as he tried to find a more comfortable position, his collar and wrists still connected to the headboard by the same chain.

“I'm not playing any games. I would not dare,” he said, breathing heavily. “But if you... It is not kindness I'm asking for. But if you offer justice... Tell me what I have to expect. Tell me if you will—”

He broke off again, wincing. Javert could not help the way gravity seemed to pull his eyes downward. Valjean had softened again, but for some reason the sight only increased the ire that rushed through him, mingling with disbelieving shame at the way desire still throbbed relentlessly between his own legs. Ruthlessly, he pushed the sensation aside as he stared at Valjean.

“If I—what?” he repeated with derision “Make use of you, the way you offered yourself up in the bagne? Why you would even think I would desire such a thing I have no idea. I should beat you for your insolence—yes, beat you until cease troubling me with your tales of comfort. Or better yet, rid you of the source of all that trouble.”

Javert nodded grimly towards Valjean's lap. “And would that not be kind? Haven't you always preached compassion? And as for that insolent insinuation... If you think that I would wallow in the filth of the bagne—I'm not like you, Valjean. Don't think we are the same. I'd much rather whip the skin off your back myself than embrace you. Are we understood?”

Valjean stared at him, his face pale, eyes wide like those of a spooked animal, though Javert was well aware that the pitiful display must be meant to set him at ease. But he was not so easily tricked.

“If you will not ask _that_ of me, monsieur,” Valjean said with difficulty, “then I swear that I won't cause you further trouble, and that these situations won't arise again. Only...”

“Yes?” Javert gritted his teeth, driven to the end of his patience by Valjean's halting speech and his closeness and the accursed pounding between his own legs.

“Only it would be easier if you would chain me on the floor. Monsieur.”

Javert, who was still troubled by thoughts of the man finding a way to break free of his chains, found that he could not argue with that as long as his arousal rose hard and distracting between his own legs, as if conjured up by Valjean to give credence to his plea.

“You sleep where and how I tell you to sleep,” Javert said brusquely, then took a deep breath to calm his still-racing heart. “But enough of this nonsense. We've got a long journey ahead of us. This is what comes of sparing the lash,” he muttered to himself as he rose, acknowledging the hardness between his legs with a slight grimace. “Once this damned journey is over, we will see about setting things straight once and for all. The gall of it!”

Still irritated, he went to wash, ignoring Valjean who was still chained to the bed. By the time he had finished shaving, his disobedient flesh had finally begun to soften, and he felt a fierce moment of triumph at having squashed whatever animal urges Valjean had sought to wake in him.


	13. Chapter 13

His foot had healed well. By the time they passed Lyon, Jean Valjean felt as strong as he had been before he had been sent to Toulon for the second time in his life. For all of Javert's bluster, so far he had continued to find ways to secure Valjean to the wall or sturdy furniture. Valjean's nights on the straw were all the more restful for the blessed absence of another body that could call up memories of his nights in the galleys.

Their road led them around Paris. Once or twice, Valjean looked at the coaches that stopped at the same inns where they had found lodgings and thought of how he could be in Paris in a day or two. From there, a man could vanish quickly after he had attained forged papers, new clothes and perhaps a wig and false beard to escape notice.

And yet, to do so he would need to rid himself of his chains first. This was where the true difficulty lay, for Javert kept watch day and night now that they had drawn closer to Paris.

Montfermeil as well was not far now, and it was that knowledge which made Valjean hesitate. If he found a way to escape now, would not Javert know that he was intending to go to the inn to retrieve Fantine's child?

His fortune was still hidden in the forest near Montfermeil. If he could just wait until a time when he could rid himself of his chains, it would be much easier to remain hidden. Escape with the chains was as good as impossible. The brand was hidden as long as he wore clothes, but iron would give him away immediately.

And once they had returned to Montreuil-sur-Mer, Javert would take up his duties again. No matter what Javert's plans for him, Valjean was certain that with Javert absent for hours every day, an opportunity would arise sooner or later. He had none of the helpful implements that deft hands and sharp minds employed in the bagne: no tiny saw hidden in a hollow coin to free him from his chains, no hidden houses were an escaped convict might find shelter, no thrifty shopkeeper who would sell men like him new clothes. Still, he knew Montreuil well, and although it would be painful to walk those streets in chains with downcast eyes, he could bear that trial, too.

Javert's mood lightened once they drew closer to Montreuil. It was as if the uncomfortable nights they had shared a bed were already forgotten, now that Valjean could be made to walk from dawn to dusk once more. At times, when Valjean settled down on his straw and heard Javert shift in his bed, he would still be taken by a sudden discomfort and remember the sensation of Javert pressed against him, in the darkness no different than any of those men in the bagne.

Twice the dreams returned; both times when he woke to find his flesh still shamefully roused, he moved to his knees as much as the chain allowed and bent his head over his hands to pray voicelessly until the sun rose and with it, Javert.

One afternoon, when the sun was beginning to sink towards the horizon, the light still golden although the shadows were getting longer, they reached the summit of a hill, and before them spread a green plain: forests and fields divided by a small river. In the distance, they could see another hill arise. Atop it something gleamed a brilliant gold; with his heart heavy, Jean Valjean beheld the distant spire of Saint-Saulve. Below it crowded the roofs of the citizens of Montreuil-sur-Mer, enclosed by the band of the heavy ramparts that had protected the town for two hundred years.

Their journey was coming to its end.

He cast a furtive eye at Javert and found him staring at the distant hill as well, a pleased smile on his face.

“Well then,” Javert muttered. “A day early. Not a day too soon, I say! They will be glad to have me back, I have no doubt of that. What they will say to see _you_ return as well—I doubt it will be as welcome.”

He turned his head to look Valjean up and down, smiling a little to himself. “Jean Valjean, finally entering Montreuil-sur-Mer as it befits him. This is how you should have arrived eight years ago: chains, a red cassock, and I doubt they would have been taken in as easily. But never mind; order has finally been restored. Everyone in their rightful place. A triumphant entry that will be. No more M. Madeleine. Now you are Jean Valjean once more, and we will see how you like it.”

Humbly, Valjean bowed his head. After a moment, Javert made an impatient sound, and then they journeyed onward, Valjean's heart heavy while the grim shadow that so often seemed to surround Javert had lifted for once.

Their entrance was a strange triumphal march, the like of which even Paris had not seen before.

Windows opened, heads were thrust outside, children trailed them, and the gossip began to travel like wildfire, with results just as incendiary. Before they had even made it past the market square, a crowd had gathered in the streets. Jean Valjean, who had traveled in that most ignominious of ways before, bound in the chaingang, now found his blood freezing in his veins, his cheeks burning, shame curdling in his stomach until it seemed to him that he could not bear to take even one further step while watched by those eyes that stared at his plight with greedy curiosity.

Were these truly the same people who only a few weeks ago had lifted their hat when they saw him and called him _monsieur_?

Once or twice, he heard the name _Madeleine_ , but it was always spoken with derision and laughter, and followed with jeers. All the good he had done had been forgotten as soon as the mark of the bagne had been revealed by Arras; to have been governed by a kind Magistrate who was also a bagnard was impossible, and so there was no good he had done which had not meanwhile been turned into proof of his wickedness by the idle gossips of the town.

The church bells rang out suddenly as they passed by Saint-Saulve. Seven times they tolled. The sound reverberated through the market place, and for one moment, drowned out all other sound. Valjean dared to raise his head. He fixed it on the distant spire. The dying light of the sun was still gleaming on it.

How many Sundays had he gone to Mass, humbly receiving the sacrament while sheltered by the stony walls that had weathered centuries? He thought of how he would be received there now. Shame and weariness caught up with him then, and he lowered his head just as the last toll of the bells faded away and the sounds of the crowd took over once more.

He was no longer M. Madeleine. Surely in their eyes, he was not even truly human anymore; he was little more than a burden dragged along behind Javert. The brand on his chest declared him Javert's property. There was no reason the eyes of the crowd should shame him now; had he not already fallen much further?

Still, every whisper, every glance piled up on him until it felt that he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulder. He nearly stumbled as he followed Javert on this long walk to Calvary, his shoulders aching beneath the burden of his cross.

The mare was returned to the stable of Master Scaufflaire, from whom Javert had rented her. Valjean watched mutely as she waited patiently when saddle and bags were lifted from her back at last. She shook herself once, her tail swishing back and forth. Then she was led into the stable, and Valjean found himself filled with a sudden envy and the overwhelming awareness that he was now less than this horse. Where she would find straw for her bedding and oats for her service, no man would offer him even that much should Javert not demand it.

The chains seemed heavier than before when he followed Javert to his lodgings. Valjean had never had reason to search out the Inspector before; now, for the first time, he was led to the man's quarters, the chains jangling as he walked up the steep stairs behind him.

Javert's lodgings were as modest as could be expected. His rooms were sparse—not unlike Valjean's own infamous hermit's grotto, they held little more than straw chairs, a table, desk and bed. When Javert opened the window, dust danced in the light of the setting sun. A breeze stirred the curtains and what dust had gathered on them in the weeks ob Javert's absence.

Javert was home. And Jean Valjean was now one further possession, added to the inventory of chairs, bed, stationary.

“I made good time after all,” Javert said to himself, sounding pleased. “A day earlier than expected; I'll have to go and inform the Commissaire of my availability tomorrow regardless. How good it will be to no longer remain idle! No more arguing with innkeepers; no more stable boys out to reach into one's pocket the moment the back is turned. No; and with you clad in the garb that suits you best, Jean Valjean, this town will know order once more.”

Here Javert gave a low laugh and turned to gaze at Valjean who stood abandoned in a corner, watching quietly while Javert proceeded to make himself at home once more.

For dinner, Javert's portress warmed some soup for him. They shared it together with a hunk of bread. Valjean ate quietly, his eyes lowered. To suddenly find himself returned to Montreuil-sur-Mer, and in such different circumstances, had shaken him more than he had expected.

The laughter of the crowd, the faces showing disgust when they spied the chains rather than the respect he had almost become used to—that had not come as a surprise. But he had not expected to walk these streets and feel the loss of it so painfully. Once, long ago, a young Jean Valjean had wept when the collar was riveted at his neck, reaching out for the seven small children he had thought to save by his actions. Now, with no family, no friends, fate had contrived to take a new thing from him.

Montreuil had become a home to him, insomuch as that was possible to one who should by all rights have been dressed in that sinister red. But no one had recognized him. No one had spied the ex-convict in the lines of his face and the limp of his leg, and over time, a certain comfort had taken the place of the old fear.

Jean Valjean had begun to feel secure—not just in his position and his new identity as Madeleine, but in his place in society. It had taken courage, at first, to battle the constant fear that he might be denounced any moment. Still, over time, it had become easier and easier to go out and give coins to those who needed, to attend funerals and press the hands of grieving widows, to conjure up hospital beds and teachers for remote villages. Little by little, he had seen the seed of goodness take root and burst into flower.

Now, he came back to find that blossom uprooted and cast away like weed. The roads and fields and ramparts where once, he had allowed himself to be a different man—a good man, a man who had never slept on wooden planks and worn the colors of ignominy—no longer seemed familiar to him. And although to the good citizens of Montreuil it seemed as though a mountebank had pulled away a curtain at the summer's fair to reveal the sensational change of mayor into galley-slave, it was the town itself that had changed from the moment the news of Madeleine's true identity began to spread.

In this town that he had devoted eight years of his life to, there was no place now for a man like him, decorated in chains and with the brand on his breast. Had Javert taken the chains off him, Valjean did not doubt that once more, even the dogs would turn their back on him and deny him shelter.

“It is time to sleep,” Javert said abruptly. By the light of his candle, he gave Valjean an unreadable look.

So disturbed in his thoughts, that old fear rose up in Valjean once more: would Javert now demand...?

“Tomorrow we'll have to think about what to do with that chain... Today, you sleep here.” Javert tossed an old blanket into the corner opposite his bed. “Where I can keep an eye on you.”

Valjean followed obediently. Javert frowned, but did not speak. A moment later, to Valjean's surprise, his hands were unlocked.

“Wash. Undress. And then sleep.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” Valjean said and inclined his head.

Javert ignored his words; in turn, Valjean tried his best to ignore Javert's presence as he saw to his ablutions. To bare himself in the bagne to the eyes of prisoners and guards alike had been shameful, though at least back then there had been the company of other galley-slaves suffering alongside him. To disrobe in Javert's bedchamber, to bare his skin to the gaze of Javert, and Javert only, to be exposed and made helpless in the home of the one man who had seen him likewise powerless in that uniform of the galley-slave, and who had also seen him clothed in respectability before this return to ignominy...

Valjean shuddered even as he drew the wet washcloth over his skin. When he reached his chest, he halted. The brand had healed well; it had ceased aching, and though the scar was as yet red instead of the pale tissue which it would eventually revert too, there had been no sign of infection. The hair Javert had shaved had grown back in; itching at first, it now covered the place over his heart once more, though it was still short, and it lacked where the branding iron had seared his skin.

After a moment, Valjean dipped the cloth into the water once more, continuing as though nothing had passed. The room was silent. When he turned his head, he found Javert watching him intently, his eyes dark and unreadable. Finally, Javert came forward to grasp the chain that hung from his collar. He tied it to a metal hoop above the window which held up the curtain rod, before he turned without a word and left the room.

Another shudder ran through Valjean, and he had to reach out to grasp hold of the desk with his hand. At last he proceeded to wash himself as speedily as he could, then drew on the armor of his threadbare shirt once more and gratefully wrapped himself in the blanket, resting in that shadowy corner with his gaze on Javert's bed.


	14. Chapter 14

Waking to the comfort of his own room and his own bed had Javert in a good mood from the moment he opened his eyes. This feeling of contentment increased when his eyes came to rest on the man asleep in the corner opposite his bed, wrapped in the spare blanket that Javert used in winter.

Jean Valjean.

A frisson of excitement and bone-deep satisfaction ran through Javert. Not long ago, Valjean would have sat behind the mayor's desk at this time, smiling his false smiles and tainting the entire town with his duplicity. How good it was to see order restored once more. And surely there could be no greater justice than to make the man pay for his crimes in the very town whose reputation he had tarnished by his actions.

When Javert rose, so did Valjean. After Javert had washed and shaved, he let Valjean see to his ablutions. The clothing Valjean had received in Toulon and worn on their journey was threadbare and stained with dust and dirt; with a scowl, Javert took hold of it and added it to the pile of his own laundry for the washerwoman.

“I daresay she will ask for another sous or two; yes, Jean Valjean, it is high time you start making up for all you've forced me to spend on you,” he said with a little glower at Valjean, who still stood at the wash basin.

At his words, Jean Valjean froze, then turned around. Javert could not help but stare at him for a moment. Even after their long journey, the sight of the man's size and strength was impressive. The shirt Valjean still wore fell open to his chest. There, it revealed a carpet of thick hair and the incriminating sight of half the brand, the letter curling teasingly away beneath the shirt.

Javert's eyes lingered on it, his mouth dry at the way triumph spread within him once more. No, Jean Valjean would never again be able to hide who and what he was. A convict. A thief. And now the property of Javert, and through him, of the state.

Javert would make certain that this man would never again fool anyone with his lies and disguises.

“Take off the shirt,” Javert commanded. He came forward to unchain Valjean, then stepped backward again, keeping out of reach of his arms.

Valjean did not meet his eyes, but he grasped the hem of his shirt without protest and slowly drew it off. Once more Javert felt a familiar triumph arise. How biddable he was now, that former mayor! To think that Javert had once stood before this man with lowered head, begging for his dismissal!

But the man before him, revealed in the sunlight without a shred of clothing to hide behind, was no Magistrate.

No. Naked, there was truly no doubt. Every inch of the man revealed the sordid tale of his past. Thick muscles shifted beneath tanned skin. On his chest, the brand was glaringly obvious. Burned deep into his skin, the scars marked his crimes for all to see. The copious hair had already begun to grow back, and Javert felt a sudden rush of excitement as he contemplated shaving him anew to keep the brand visible.

But there was no need, truly. Where the skin had been branded, no hair would grow. Even with that heavy carpet of coarse hair on his chest, the lines of the brand would always be visible.

Slowly, Javert's eyes trailed lower, taking in the soft genitals, the massive thighs, the corded muscles.

“Turn around,” he then said, the heat of satisfaction warming him when Valjean obeyed.

The man's back was marked by the lash. The scars were white, as the brand would turn in time. Here, too, muscles and sinews moved beneath tanned skin. Again Javert's eyes slid downward to the narrow hips, eyeing the firm buttocks. For one moment, the memory of that night arose unbidden, when he had woken with his own prick nestled between those cheeks, feeling the heat of Valjean's body, the strange softness of the lash-marked skin...

With some effort, Javert tore himself away from that memory. Instead, as he took in the muscled body, he imagined Valjean standing naked in the bagne of Toulon as he was washed by other convicts. Had Jean Valjean pressed himself against his chainmate in invitation, as he had done to Javert that night?

His throat dry, Javert swallowed. Then he grasped the chain once more to connect it to Valjean's collar.

“There's nothing in this room that would help you escape,” he said, his voice low and still hoarse, “so do not even try it.”

Javert took hold of the shirt without releasing Valjean's gaze. It stank of Valjean's sweat after the long ride. Then he left, bolting the room behind him as he brought the dirty clothes downstairs to his portress, where her niece the washerwoman would collect them soon.

***

While Javert had no doubt that the weeks of his absence had been a welcome reprieve for the town's criminal caste, the commissaire he reported to was pleased indeed that the inspector was returned at last. Javert spent half the day acquainting himself with what had come to pass in his absence, studying reports of suspicious men sighted in a nearby village and complaints of unstable walls alike.

Finally, Javert proceeded to walk the streets of Montreuil once more, taking note of the familiar haunts of pick-pockets and prostitutes, and the noticeable absence of one of his most helpful informers. The sun was high in the sky now, and Javert paused his patrol for a short visit to his rooms. The laundry had indeed been taken away by the washerwoman; Javert would find it returned in the evening in a neatly folded pile.

When he opened the door to his rooms, the silence was unsettling. There was nothing in his bedroom which Valjean could have used to make his escape; even so, a strange tension took hold of Javert until he entered the room and found Valjean in the corner opposite his bed, wrapped in the blanket.

Javert stared at him. Jean Valjean calmly returned his gaze. Almost Javert felt compelled to accuse him of having planned an escape or committed some new form of devilry, though the room was undisturbed and the collar and chain were in place.

After a moment, Javert realized that the worn bible given him by a former superior was resting on the rickety desk next to his bed, instead of the shelf where he usually kept it.

Javert scoffed. “Feel free to make use of my bible if you must,” he said in derision. “Just remember that your games are misplaced with me. The truth is out, Jean Valjean. No display of false piety will make me forget your time on the scaffold, and the brand on your breast.”

Valjean inclined his head. “Thank you, monsieur.”

Javert wanted to laugh again. Something about the man's meekness was grating. His obedience chafed, rubbing Javert's nerves raw until he wanted to grip hold of the blanket and tear it away, revealing the brand once more to prove to Jean Valjean that Javert would not be fooled by his display.

Instead, Javert reached into his pocket. He drew out a peach he had acquired at the market, as well as a hunk of bread. He tossed both at Valjean, who caught them with ease.

“Don't grow too used to this,” Javert said once more, his voice low. “We'll have you working for your food soon enough. A nice sum you have cost me...”

“Yes, monsieur,” Jean Valjean replied, tranquil despite the fact that he was sitting on the floor of Javert's bedroom with only a blanket wrapped around himself.

Javert bared his teeth, then turned around and left without another word. The devil was getting confident, now that the exhausting journey had come to its end. It was high time that Javert found some other way to work the man hard. Toulon might have sold him, but to Javert, he was still a bagnard. And his own years in the bagne of Toulon had taught him that you needed to work these devils day and night so that they did not grow overly brazen.

An occasion to deal with this problem arose much sooner than Javert had dared to hope for. On his way to the mills built along the gently flowing river Canche, he came across an old farmer quarreling with Master Scaufflaire, who seemed to get more irritated by the minute.

“A fine horse you have lent me,” the farmer exclaimed, his face red with anger.

Javert knew him; his name was Père Dubuc, and he owned three small fields to the north-east of the town.

“Ten sous I paid for the week, and it's not even been two days yet and the beast won't budge!”

“You paid ten sous, and you received a horse that's worth ten sous,” Master Scaufflaire said, straightening his jacket. “You've seen the horse before you paid; you knew well what sort of horse you were renting! You asked me for the cheapest beast; with no word did you mention that you were expecting a horse that could do hard work all week, untiring and strong, dragging stones and old roots from your field! And ten sous for all that? Come now, Père Dubuc, give me a franc and I'll let you have the nice Belgian gelding with a chest like a barrel and legs like tree trunks. But for ten sous, all you can have is the old garrison horse, and that's what you got.”

The horse standing next to Père Dubuc in an old harness had its head and neck lowered, but not to graze. Dully, it stared at the ground. Like all of Master Scaufflaire's horses, it was clean and fed well, though even oats could not halt the process of time. The horse's coat, although brushed by a stable boy in the morning, showed bald spots, and the beast's joints were swollen.

Not more than could be expected for ten sous, thought Javert, and then he scowled when he thought of how Jean Valjean would need a second shirt so that he would not sit around scandalously naked while the other was with the washerwoman. Another five sous for Javert too, at least.

“And how will I do my work now?” Père Dubuc exclaimed. “I need another field; three's not enough, not with how the harvest's been going these past few years. Who will drag those stones from my field? Who will rip out those roots? Will you do it, Master Scaufflaire? Or you, Inspector Javert? One franc, you say, and then laugh and make me pay ten sous for a horse that will drop dead the moment you load it—”

“Père Dubuc,” Javert said, an idea coming to him all of a sudden. “The horse cannot do the work, that much is clear. To solve this problem, I suggest Master Scaufflaire takes back the horse and pays back the fifty sous for the remaining five days—”

“And my field?” the farmer cried out.

“I will lend you someone to do the work for you. Stronger than that horse. Twelve sous a day, and he'll work for as long as you need him.”

Suspiciously, the farmer squinted at him. Master Scaufflaire used his chance to take the reins of the exhausted horse, then handed Père Dubuc a handful of coins

“Those rumors are true, eh? Didn't want to believe it—you brought back the old mayor?”

Javert bared his teeth for another smile. “Not mayor—Jean Valjean. A convict. Dragging stones from your field will suit him. He'll feel right at home; yes, I saw him hold up a caryatid with his back once myself. I assure you, Père Dubuc, he'll be dragging your stones all day without complaint.”

Still frowning in suspicion, the farmer took twelve sous and put them into his hand. “I need that field ready by the end of the week,” he muttered, then gave Master Scaufflaire another dark look. “Your man better keep your promises, Inspector...”

“I'll make certain of that myself,” Javert said.

As Master Scaufflaire led the exhausted horse away, shaking his head, the farmer took a step closer to peer at Javert's face with a suddenly worried expression.

“A convict, you say—and very strong. Inspector, we've had all the news from the Var, the brigandage he was convicted for—will it be safe?”

Javert allowed his smile to widen, tightening his grip on his cudgel. “Very safe, Père Dubuc,” he said, his fingers sliding along the heavy wood. “Very safe.”

The second half of his day Javert spent in an even better mood.

The twelve sous in his pocket had paid for a shirt for Valjean. If Valjean were to do the farmer's work for the rest of the week, Javert would receive another thirty six sous. It was a long way from the two hundred francs Javert had so spontaneously spent; but in time, by working the man hard for a year or two, Javert's ill-thought out purchase might yet turn into a profitable investment.

In any case, Père Dubuc's problem had reminded Javert that there was also coin to be earned in other ways: the town was in need of a road mender, an occupation which seemed suited to Valjean's brute strength, and though the payment was as small as what little Père Dubuc could spare, it was better than nothing. Furthermore, the thought of Jean Valjean laboring was pleasing to Javert: certainly that was as it should be, the well-deserved punishment for Valjean's many crimes.

In the evening, when he returned to his rooms, the clothes had been returned by his portress's niece. The woman had acquired a straw mattress for him as well and had a large pot of stew boiling in her kitchen. Pleased by the scent of mutton and onions, and even more pleased by the thought that Valjean's own labor would pay for shirt, mattress and food, Javert ascended the stairs.

Valjean was waiting where he had left him, collar and chain still in place. Javert unchained him, then tossed the washed and mended clothes at him. After Valjean had quickly pulled them on, Javert fastened the chain to his collar once more. Next, he retrieved the straw mattress, ignoring Valjean's look of surprise and his words of thanks.

Instead, he dropped a length of chain onto the table. He had taken it from the station-house earlier that day. Now, at the tell-tale jangling of chains and cuffs, Valjean's head lifted sharply. He did not speak. His eyes were wide and dark as they searched Javert's face. Was that a hint of fear after all?

Whatever that emotion was, the sight pleased Javert more than the man's earlier complacency. Javert's smile widened a little. If Jean Valjean had thought that he would remain idle in Javert's care, the coming day would soon disabuse him of that notion.

Then, without speaking a word of explanation or warning as to the intended use of those chains, Javert turned to walk down the stairs once more to where his portress had dinner waiting for him. Now that there was a convict in his rooms, she refused to come up the stairs, but it was all the same to Javert.

“Tomorrow we'll put him to some use, at last,” Javert muttered as he walked up the narrow staircase again. “As it should be. Keep them too tired to get into trouble, that's how you deal with them. He'll stop smiling soon enough.”


	15. Chapter 15

In the morning, Jean Valjean woke before Javert. For half an hour, he rested quietly on his straw mattress, watching as the darkness receded ever so slowly while the song of the birds outside increased in volume. Javert was still asleep.

Valjean was grateful for the quiet. How strange it was to feel at peace in the home of Javert—but after their long journey, and after the many eyes that had watched him walk through this town in chains, the solitude of Javert's bedroom felt like a moment of respite from the humiliation that was certainly still to come.

Furthermore, now that he had returned to Montreuil, Valjean would only have to bide his time for as long as it took to find a way to free himself of the chains and escape. With the money he had buried near Montfermeil, it would be possible to acquire a new name and a new life, guarding Fantine's child as he had promised. But first he would have to find a way to cast off his chains, which might prove harder than expected, for Javert was loathe to take his eyes off him.

Valjean's skin crawled as he remembered the unsettling experience of Javert's eyes on his naked body. No, Javert would not make it easy.

And yet, had he not managed to flee Toulon four times? In time, God would show him a way. Until then, Valjean needed to show himself obedient, no matter what Javert might ask.

The thought of just what Javert might demand made Valjean's throat go dry. It was difficult to forget the pressure of Javert's arousal against his skin, no matter how Javert denied having such desires. Furthermore, there were the chains Javert had brought home the day before, and for which Javert had given no explanation. If Javert were to use these to chain him down so that he was helpless...

Valjean turned his head. He watched the bed as the first rays of the morning sun lit the room. He could not see Javert from his place on the floor, but he did not need to. The memory of Javert's body pressed against his own beneath the blanket, the heat of Javert's breath and the heaviness of his arousal, was difficult to forget.

Later, once Javert had risen and washed and Valjean had been unchained, they broke their fast with bread and cheese. The chains and shackles were still resting ominously on the table. Javert did not bother with an explanation even now, but once they rose from the table, Valjean learned what they were intended for.

This time, the shackles were affixed to his legs. The chain between his feet was long enough that he could walk, but not long enough to run. Valjean let it all happen without protest, even though in his mind, the specter of Javert pressing against him rose once more.

“I told you, this life of leisure will have an end,” Javert said triumphantly as they stepped out onto the street, Javert's portress watching from the safety of her window. “This is no longer a town where prostitutes are coddled and convicts treated like magistrates. You'll work if you want to eat. And don't think that you can escape. Everyone here knows you for who you truly are, Jean Valjean. If I see you so much as lift your hand without having been ordered to, it'll be the lash. Another taste of the bagne you won't have forgotten, I'm certain.”

“No, monsieur,” Valjean said obediently as he followed Javert through the as yet abandoned streets, the words bitter on his tongue.

He was grateful that it was still early. They passed a water carrier and two young boys herding a flock of geese towards the market place—but Javert was not leading him towards the town's center, where without a doubt more humiliation would have awaited him. Instead, they were making their way towards the gate that led out of the town.

The chains jangled with every step. Their weight made it impossible to forget what he was. Their sound recalled the chaingang, the jeering crowd that had watched them pass, the unbearable exposure in Toulon when he had been sold like cattle.

Perhaps it was a blessing that he was not led across the marketplace of Montreuil in chains. Yet even so, the humiliation of walking through these familiar streets with the shackles on his feet and the brand on his skin was enough to keep him from paying attention to their surroundings until they had left the ramparts that circled the town behind them, following a path that led north instead.  
Here, blessedly free from eyes to observe his shame, Valjean was able to breathe easier—but this moment of respite did not last.

They had not walked for very long in the light of the morning sun when they reached a field. There, a man was awaiting them, peering suspiciously at them from beneath a wide-brimmed hat, a small hill of stones and roots behind him.

The man was known in the town as Père Dubuc, and Jean Valjean had often passed him working on his fields as he went out for his solitary walks. Back then, the farmer had stopped in his work and greeted him respectfully. Now, he eyed Valjean with a frown, a familiar expression of both fear and awe on his face when he beheld the infamous former mayor and convict once more.

"The deuce!" he said. "It's really the mayor—pardon, inspector, the convict, I mean!"

"His name is Jean Valjean," Javert said.

Valjean shivered to hear the satisfaction in his voice.

"As promised,” Javert continued. “You'll have him all day. I'll return for him in the evening. He won't cause any trouble. He knows better than that, eh, Valjean?"

Javert nudged him lightly with his cudgel, and Valjean swallowed and bent his head in submission.

"He won't be able to run or attack you with his feet chained. Just set him to work. And don't let him trick you. He's a sly one."

The old farmer tightened his hand around the large, knobbly stick he held. "He won't trick me. I've got too much work to do, I have no patience for troublemakers."

Valjean remained silent, looking at the mound of stones. There was a broken shovel nearby, which the man must have flung down in frustration, and a coiled length of rope.

Javert's cudgel pressed against his chin, forcing him to turn his head to meet Javert's eyes.

"When I return this afternoon," Javert said, his voice low, "I expect to find this field free of rocks. And if I hear a single complaint, Valjean, if you so much as touch a blade of grass without permission, it will be the lash instead of dinner for you this evening, are we understood?"

"Yes, monsieur," Valjean said quietly.

Despite the weight of the cudgel against his throat and the threat of the lash, Valjean's heart was suddenly beating faster. He met Javert's eyes with complacency, allowing a hint of fear to show. A long moment passed, then Javert scowled and released him.

"Don't coddle him, Père Dubuc," he said. "The devil needs to be worked hard. He's twice as strong as an ox; keep that in mind and treat him accordingly."

With those words of parting, Jean Valjean was released from the custody of Javert to the custody of the farmer for the day. Without protest, Valjean began to set to work while the farmer watched, first with suspicion, soon with relief as Valjean began to tirelessly drag stone after stone from the field.

Despite Javert's words, Valjean had no intention of rebellion. In fact, even though he did not dare to show a single hint of it, Jean Valjean was relieved. He had hoped that in time, the hours he was by necessity forced to spend without Javert's supervision would lead to a chance for escape. To work on a field outside the town's ramparts, supervised only by an old farmer, was more than he had dared to hope for.

Still, Javert was a suspicious man, and it would not do to give his plans away so quickly, not when Javert was rightfully suspicious of his intentions.

The many years in Toulon had taught Valjean patience. There were no walls to scale here, but he needed to plan his route just as carefully, for one small misstep might bring an end to his escape plans just as surely.

For now, Valjean worked as he had been told, toiling silently in the sun as though he were still wearing the red blouse. The field the farmer wanted to clear was covered with large rocks and old roots from trees that had been felled a while ago. The dead roots were bleached from the sun now, but they still clung to the soil and had to be dragged from the field together with the rocks, so that next spring, the farmer could till the earth without destroying his plow. 

It was back-breaking labor. Soon, Valjean's shirt clung to his body, damp with sweat, but he kept dragging rock after rock from the field without protest. After a while the farmer, who had been watching with suspicion and keeping hold of his stick, began to relax. He did not speak; instead, he began to tend to one of his other fields, still keeping an eye on Valjean.

An hour might have passed before Père Dubuc straightened with a groan from his work. Valjean watched as the farmer walked towards the well he used to water his animals. There, the man filled a bucket with cold water. After he had drunk his fill, he carried the bucket towards the pile of stones where he put it down, giving Valjean a small nod before he returned to his turnips.

The next time Valjean had succeeded in dragging a large rock from the field, he paused by the bucket to drink deeply of the cold water. Even though the sun did not burn as strongly as it had in Toulon, it was promising to become a hot day, and the water was welcome.

Jean Valjean gave the farmer a grateful nod in return. When he straightened, his eyes fell onto the splintered shovel. Someone had tried to fix it, but it seemed the repair had not been enough to withstand the force that was needed to move one of the rocks.

A flattened nail glinted in the light of the sun, attached to the broken handle. Valjean strode past it, then bent to pick up the shovel with the foot of splintered wood that was left. From the corner of his eye, he could see that the farmer was watching him again in suspicion.

Calmly, Valjean stepped back into the field, halting by a large root that so far had shown itself resistant to his strength. With quiet determination, he began to dig. Despite the broken handle, the shovel still proved useful. A pickaxe would have made his work even easier, but he knew better than to complain or ask for better tools. Surely Javert would be pleased to chastise him for such demands. 

While the work was tedious and while there were chains on his feet, he was breathing fresh air and seeing the blue sky, and there was nothing between him and freedom but the chains on his feet. To a man who had scaled the walls and roofs of the bagne of Toulon four times, this was not so terrible a thing. And it was better to dig in the dirt and toil to benefit a man he had known and respected when he had still been Madeleine, than to spend his days locked in Javert's bedroom, ever fearful of what Javert might come to demand.

Even with the broken spade, it took Jean Valjean half an hour to remove the gnarled root. He dragged it back to the pile that had nearly doubled in size since he had started his work. For a moment, he paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, taking a deep breath. His foot nudged the broken handle towards the hill of rocks and roots. Then he took another deep drink of the cold water, splashing some onto his face before he ventured out to where more rocks were waiting for him.

When he next returned, he piled an armful of roots on top of the broken handle and nail, until it could no longer be seen.

“It's noon,” the farmer said gruffly when Valjean turned to take up his work once more. “There. Eat.”

The man still kept his distance, no doubt wary of Valjean's strength. On a rock, he had set down a hunk of bread and a small apple. Again Valjean inclined his head, tired and grateful. It was true: this was more than he could have hoped for in Toulon, where he would have been eating beans out of a greasy tin vessel in the company of a hundred other men, and no one would have spoken to him or even known his name.

“Thank you,” Valjean said quietly as he moved towards the offered food. The words were meant for God as much as for the farmer. In his shame at being paraded through the streets where once, people had looked at him with respect and called him Monsieur, he had forgotten that there were worse things than such infamy. Even the brand and the torturous journey with Javert had to be a sign that God in his infinite wisdom had once more held his hand over him.

He was not dead. He was not in the bagne. He had been returned to a place he knew well, a place close to the child he had sworn to protect, and the money he had buried. Javert had not beaten him, had not forced himself on him, had even sent him out to work the fields of this farmer. Surely soon God would show him the way to escape as well. Until then, he needed to be patient and remember the darkness from which the Bishop had lifted him. He would not return to it again. No matter what might be asked of him, he could not stray even one step from this path to goodness, for he knew the darkness that lay beyond all too well.


	16. Chapter 16

Javert idly fingered his cudgel as he walked through the streets of Montreuil-sur-Mer. It was not dark yet, but the sun would soon sink below the horizon. Javert had checked up on Jean Valjean at noon and found him working, as well-behaved as could be expected of a convict: silent, his eyes lowered, not stopping even as Javert drew up next to the farmer to watch him drag a large rock through the dirt.

Perhaps the sight should have set Javert at ease. Instead, he had spent the afternoon with the tingling alarm at the back of his mind that seemed to plague him whenever he let the man out of his sight. 

Of course, Jean Valjean was a dangerous man who had escaped the bagne of Toulon not once, but four times. And yet, for now he seemed docile enough. He could not run with the chains on his feet.

Valjean was sly; Javert did not doubt that eventually, he would try to break his chains. But surely he would not try to escape when he could do no more than walk. The farmer's alarm would have men after him within minutes, and Valjean's face was well-known to every man and woman within a day's walk.

No, Javert did not doubt that the day would come—but when it came, he would be prepared.

Valjean was no longer at work when Javert finally made it to the field. Instead, he was seated in the grass, a slice of bread in his hand and a bucket of water in front of him. His shirt was wet, and so was his hair. Droplets were still dripping from the white strands onto broad shoulders, soaking into the shirt smudged with dirt, although Valjean's face and hands were clean.

Again Javert felt displeasure arise within him. What was that farmer doing, disregarding his advice? Coddling a convict— _a slave!_ —like this would only lead to trouble. Furthermore, it would not do to allow Valjean to believe that he deserved such gentle treatment. Once before, the man had forgotten his place and instated himself as a magistrate. And now, instead of toiling on his knees in the dirt, here he was seated in the grass, looking as carefree as a grisette on Sunday, eating food he had not earned with the idle air of a Parisian dandy.

“Get up,” Javert said curtly.

Valjean obeyed immediately. Javert scowled as he looked at the bread in his hand, then turned towards the farmer.

“You went too easy on him.”

“I did no such thing.” Père Dubuc straightened to gesture at the field before them. “A quarter of it cleared, and thoroughly enough it won't break my plow! That's twice what I'd have been able to do even with Master Scaufflaire's best horse. No, I'm content with the deal we made, Javert. Have him here again in the morning. I want that field ready this week. He goes on like this, it might not be too late to sow winter wheat...”

In displeasure, Javert ground his teeth to keep from further arguments with the man. What did he care if Père Dubuc let Jean Valjean off too lightly? As long as he paid, it was all the same to him. And there would be other work once this week was over. Valjean would earn back the coin Javert had been forced to spend on him, he would see to that.

"Come along then," he ordered, then barked, "Stop," when Valjean rose and revealed the sight of a broken shovel behind the rock he had been sitting on.

The farmer scowled at the tool. "What, that? Wasn't his fault. It broke yesterday when I was trying to get this work done without that lazy beast Master Scaufflaire lent me. I let him have it to dig out roots; can't do it with his hands, can he?"

Javert bit back a remark that Valjean could—and _would,_ if he knew what was good for him—do any and all work that was demanded of him. Instead, Javert stepped around to nudge the broken shovel with the tip of his boot. There was about a hand's width of handle left before the spot where the wood had splintered. A pathetic tool for digging—and even less useful as a weapon.

Nevertheless, the unease in his chest that had accompanied him all day did not relent. Was this how it would start? A broken shovel today—would he find Jean Valjean with an axe tomorrow? Or was not even such a defective tool an efficient weapon in the hands of this man who had stopped an ox using nothing but brute strength?

Javert lifted his head. Valjean had not moved. He was staring at the ground, his shoulders bent in exhaustion, dirt staining his jacket and his trousers. It was true: so far Jean Valjean had proved obedient. But what if this was planned? What if Valjean was just waiting for the moment when Javert would cease being vigilant?

Without a word, Javert took up the shovel. He inspected it thoroughly. A tool, yes, a weapon even... But it seemed harmless enough. It would not help Valjean to escape or shatter his fetters. Still, a part of Javert was unsettled.

"I'll have him back in the morning," he finally said, dropping the broken spade as he gave the farmer a nod. Then he led Valjean away from the field.

The path that led in gentle curves back towards the ramparts of Montreuil followed the course of a brook for a while. Once they reached a spot where the rivulet meandered away from the narrow road to join the Canche in the distance, Javert gripped Valjean's shoulder and pushed him off the path. Valjean's muscles tightened beneath his grip, but still the man did not speak, following along willingly as fast as he could with the chain on his feet.

When they reached a thicket of bushes and trees that shielded this part of the brook from the path, Javert stopped.

"Strip," he forced out, one hand on his cudgel again. "Take off all your clothes. And then wash."

Valjean swallowed. He did not protest, but he was slow to raise his hands to strip off both jacket and shirt. Was there some fear left in Valjean after all? The thought was strangely reassuring.

Javert had to unlock the shackles at his feet so that Valjean could pull off his trousers as well. He did so with the same slow movements that betrayed his reluctance, even though he knew better than attempt rebellion. Javert watched attentively, his fingers curling around the cudgel. Valjean would be a fool to try and attack—even so, Javert was prepared for it.

But no attack came. Instead, Valjean waded into the stream, shoulders hunching at the cold water. Javert reached into his pocket and pulled out a ball of soap which he had acquired earlier.

"Use this." He threw the small ball at Valjean, who caught it out of the air. "Be thorough. I don't want your dirt and sweat in my rooms."

The soap was cheap and coarse, but Valjean began scrubbing himself without protest. Javert watched for a long moment, both to make certain that his instructions were followed, and to inspect the naked body for all the ways in which a convict might hide some small implement. Once he was satisfied, Javert moved on to inspect Valjean's clothes. They were stained with sweat and imprints of grass and smudges of dirt. Impatient, Javert felt the seams, almost disappointed when his search remained without result. No small knife pilfered from the farmer, no lockpicks or keys or files Valjean might have acquired by chance.

"Come out. Stand still," Javert commanded, still scowling as he stared at Valjean in suspicion.

He walked around the man, inspecting his naked, dripping form. He stopped behind Valjean, using his cudgel to force the convict to spread his legs wider apart. When that did not result in any hidden implements revealed between the muscular thighs or the curve of Valjean's buttocks, he continued until he stood in front of the man, using his cudgel instead to lift his genitals.

The muscles of Valjean's stomach contracted convulsively. Water still ran in rivulets down his chest, glistening on the coarse hair. There was no key or file hidden between the soft shaft and balls either.

Javert's teeth clenched. "You can dress," he said, feeling irritable that all of his suspicions had proved false once more.

"Thank you, monsieur," Valjean said calmly, even though blood had rushed to his face.

It was enough to make Javert want to laugh. The mere idea that this man still knew shame, who had so readily revealed his sordid past in the bagne...

"And be quick about it. It's already late, and my portress will have dinner ready."

Valjean bent over to retrieve his shirt and trousers from the ground, and Javert found himself staring at the muscular thighs and buttocks once more. Valjean's skin was still wet, gleaming in the fading light of the evening sun. There was a light dusting of hair there as well, sparser than Javert's, and still dark.

Javert's throat went dry when he contemplated the various other ways in which convicts had been known to hide their valuables. To search Jean Valjean more intimately would be well within his right—and surely reasonable enough, given the man's past!

But when Valjean straightened, his eyes on the ground as he hurried to slip back into his clothes, Javert forced that thought back. Once more, alarm rose within him at the ease with which that idea had conjured up images of Valjean's thighs bending at the touch of a rough hand, the strong body arching in offering beneath a faceless, nameless crowd of men all wearing the red blouse and yellow trousers...

"It's late," Javert repeated, then bit his tongue, angry with himself as though he had given something away.

He grabbed the chains, then motioned impatiently back towards the path, ignoring Valjean's questioning look. All of a sudden, Javert found that he did not want to linger, not even long enough to chain Valjean's feet once more. Certainly his cudgel and gun would suffice to keep the man in check for the short way home.

It was late enough that the streets were quiet, the marketplace long since deserted by farmers and vendors. Nevertheless, a strange tension had taken hold of Javert, which did not abate until they had made it back to his lodgings.

For dinner, his portress had prepared mutton. The meat was tough, veined with stringy tendons and globules of fat. His portress, a thrifty woman, would only buy the cheapest cut of meat, but she had simmered the mutton with onions and carrots and parsnips until it yielded a rich, brown broth that they wiped up with more bread.

For once, Javert bit back a satisfied remark comparing this fare to what would have awaited Valjean in Toulon. He still felt vaguely uncomfortable, unsettled anew by the sensation of Jean Valjean moving through these rooms that had been his, and only his, for several years now.

Valjean was quiet, at least. There were no protests even when Javert directed him to brush the dirt from his clothes. Tired after the long day but too stubborn to lapse in his habit, Javert took up a newspaper, and doggedly made his way through a long article. From the corner of his eye, he watched Valjean as he knelt on the floorboards, wearing nothing but a clean shirt now as he brushed at the dirt that clung to his trousers and shoes. In this position, it was impossible not to take notice of Valjean's haunches, bulging with strength. His shirt had ridden up just enough to reveal glimpses of the broad thighs and the hard muscles that shifted and tensed with every motion.

Frustrated, Javert at last put the paper away when he realized that he had retained nothing of the past several paragraphs. Instead, he went to where the chain had been left in the morning.

"Leave that. Come here," he commanded, walking into the bedroom.

Valjean followed silently, his eyes calm, although Javert could not help but take note of how Valjean's eyes seemed to linger on his bed for a moment before they skidded away.

Javert bared his teeth. All of a sudden, frustration had returned with full force. Carefully, he hooked the chain into Valjean's collar, then fastened the other end to the wall once more—and then, just to prove that he could, he reached out to grasp a fistful of the shirt. He stared into Valjean's eyes, watching as they turned dark, the pupils widening, Valjean's breathing speeding up.

Was that fear? And was not fear what he wanted?

Javert's lips parted. All of a sudden, he was lost for words. What had he intended to say? He could not recall. His tongue was heavy in his mouth. Valjean's chest was rising and falling. Again Javert thought of how the men had been chained in the salle: so close that every day, Valjean would have fallen asleep and woken to the sensation of a body pressed against his, just as they had woken in the narrow bed that one night on their journey.

Javert released the shirt and swallowed, taking a step back. "Go to bed," he said. His voice sounded rougher than he had intended.

Valjean watched him, his eyes unreadable, then nodded somewhat jerkily.

Javert returned to where he had left his paper. Valjean's clothes were still on the floor. He forced his eyes away from them, pressing his lips tightly together. It was late, he thought again. This time, he did not speak it aloud.

Just as silently, Javert set to washing himself. When he was finished, it had grown dark enough that he needed to light a candle. Suddenly restless, he grabbed hold of the paper once more, and then carried it back into the bedroom with him.

Valjean was stretched out on his straw mattress, covered with his old blanket. He had turned to his side, but his eyes were open. For a moment, Javert wondered whether he had watched the door in fear. Then his jaw tightened.

He put the candle down onto the bedside table, then grabbed the Bible that was still resting there.

"You'll want this, I'm sure” he said, trying to make it sound derisive. Instead, his voice was still so rough that it sounded nearly like a threat.

Valjean's eyes widened. Then he nodded slowly and leaned forward to take hold of the book.

Javert stretched out on his bed, covering himself with his blanket. He drew open his paper once more. He could not remember where he had left off. It was still warm, and the croaking of frogs and the distant clatter of a lonely carriage came in through the open window. He stared at the small print by the light of his candle.

There was a rustling sound when Valjean leafed slowly through the Bible.

What verses would comfort a convict, Javert wondered for a moment. Then, as if surprised by the path his thoughts had taken, he cleared his throat and forced himself to start the article from the beginning. He did not look up again until the candle had burned down low, and he found himself unsettled by the sudden quietness. When he lowered the paper in alarm, he saw to his surprise the reason for this silence: Jean Valjean, that master of escapes, had not broken his fetters or found a way to slip out of his collar.

Jean Valjean had fallen asleep, his hair gleaming silver in the light of the candle, his face lined by exhaustion as it tilted against the wall. His mouth was slightly parted. Before him, the Bible was still open, one of Valjean's hands resting on it, his fingers curled as though waiting for someone to take hold of his hand.


	17. Chapter 17

For three days, Jean Valjean worked on the farmer's field. It soon became a comforting routine: in the mornings, Javert would wake him and share his breakfast. Then Valjean was led towards the field, his legs chained so that he could not run. While the sun slowly made its way across the sky, Valjean would ceaselessly labor on the field, dragging rock after rock from the soil and digging out the old, gnarled roots of trees felled a season or two ago.

The farmer left him to his work, and Valjean was grateful for the solitude. Every now and then, people came by and stared, or stopped for a chat with the farmer. Once, a group of children came racing down the path from the town; they were jeering and one of them threw a stone. Enraged, the farmer raised his hoe and scared them away; Valjean simply hunched his shoulders and continued to work.

Once, children had run towards him to beg for toys. That they now came to point and laugh cut worse than the stone that had sliced open his foot—but all the same, they were just children, and Jean Valjean was a famous convict. Could he fault them for their reaction? And was this not nevertheless a better fate than what would have awaited in Toulon?

Wearily, he paused to stare up at the sun. He wiped away the sweat that dripped from his brow. It was noon, which meant that Javert might return soon to check on him.

Valjean shuddered when he recalled what it had been like to be exposed to all eyes in the marketplace of Toulon, cudgels prodding him as people jeered. No, the children's laughter was bearable. They saw him now for what he was. He had sought to hide this truth for so long, but he could not fault them for their reaction, now that the truth was revealed.

This time, when Javert came to check up on him, Valjean was seated on the grass, grateful for a moment in the shade and the bread the farmer had brought. Javert scowled down at him, his boot nudging a shackle as if to make certain that it had not been loosened while Jean Valjean was out of his sight.

Valjean bore it all quietly. His chest was still rising and falling rapidly, his shirt sticking to his sweaty body. Although the muscles of his arms still ached from the exertion of tearing a final root from the soil, it was a good exhaustion, and one he did not mind. It was nothing like the back-breaking labor of Toulon—and furthermore, by helping the farmer to ready his field for the plow, he would ensure that another family was fed.

Still, even now, the chains at his feet made it impossible to forget what he was.

"Keep an eye on him," Javert said to the farmer, ignoring Valjean. "Don't think you can blame me if you neglect to watch him and he—"

The farmer shuffled closer, clutching another bucket full of water. "Don't see what business of yours that is," he said, sounding cross. "A man works hard on the fields, he gets a drink of water, just like I water my ox or my horse. That's how my father's done it, and his father before, and I won't have you tell me how to do my work here on my own land!"

Javert's boot nudged the chain again. Valjean carefully kept his eyes averted, ignoring the water while Javert was staring down at him. He could feel Javert's frustration. The sensation was familiar. In Toulon, it had become easy to read a man's mood. When and on whom would the cudgel fall? One developed a certain skill in the bagne to foretell the bruises that would bloom, should one attract the attention of a guard at the wrong moment.

Javert was tense. Instinctively, Valjean's shoulders hunched. He had never seen Javert beat a prisoner in anger, that was true—but likewise, Javert had never failed to demonstrate his triumph in other ways. And Valjean was no longer simply a prisoner. Should Valjean offend now, might not Javert choose to beat him after all? Or—perhaps even worse—drag him back through the town by his chain, right through the crowded market square, where those who had once greeted him with respect would now avert their eyes in fear?

"He's a right devil," Javert muttered after a long moment had passed. "You'd do well not to forget that."

"The devil's welcome to work for me if he can clear my field for twelve sous," the farmer grumbled, then straightened after that blasphemy and scowled back at Javert. "Have him back tomorrow. Last day. That's the deal. He'll have to get those roots out of the way, I sold them all as firewood."

Again Javert stared down at Valjean. This time, not quite certain why, Valjean raised his head to meet his eyes.

"I'm watching you," Javert said after a long moment, his eyes narrow with suspicion.

Valjean felt strangely light-headed. Javert seemed to defy what rules of self-preservation he had learned in Toulon. Where was the cudgel; where was the lash? Javert had promised them numerous times now, but they had not come. And yet, what was this tension that never seemed to leave Javert?

Like brushwood in summer, all it seemed to take was a spark to set Javert off. Javert needed no reason to beat him; even so, he had chosen not to. Still, why did he keep watching Valjean as though he was just waiting for the slightest reason to whip him? Valjean had known guards in Toulon who would rain down blows on weary bones for eyes that had been lowered a fraction too late. Javert lacked their cruelty—but the merciless intensity with which Javert watched him was the same.

Again Valjean thought of the hardness he had felt when they had shared a horse. In a way, that possibility was more terrifying than the whip. And yet, if this was what Javert was waiting for, he needed no reason to force Valjean when Valjean spent all of his nights at Javert's mercy, chained in his bedroom.

Javert bared his teeth at Valjean. "We'll find some other work for you next week. Hard labor for life. That's still your sentence as far as I'm concerned." With a final, satisfied glower, Javert turned and walked back towards the town.

A moment later, the farmer spit. "That blackguard of a spy! Thinks he can tell me how to work a field on my own land..."

Valjean remained silent. Still shaking his head, the farmer returned to his turnips at last.

With a deep breath, Valjean splashed some of the cold water into his face before he drank. There were still several hours of work ahead of him; still, working the farmer's field meant that he did not have to bear the unsettling sensation of Javert's burning gaze.

Once more, Jean Valjean returned to his work. Most of the field had been cleared from rocks and roots. A few more hours of work would see even the last corner of the field prepared for the plow. Valjean took a deep breath, and then bent to drag yet another of the rocks towards the mound of rocks and roots.

For the next two hours, Valjean labored as the farmer was bent over his turnips. Every now and then he straightened to watch Valjean, who worked slowly but ceaselessly, straining beneath the weight of rock after rock. At last, in the early afternoon, Père Dubuc left his field behind to return to the well. Valjean watched as the farmer filled another bucket of cold water for him. Then the man started his usual routine of refilling the trough for his geese and an old goat before he began to water the small garden where he grew herbs by the side of his house.

As he had done every other time when the farmer had brought him water, Valjean gratefully paused by the bucket for a moment. He drank deeply, then poured water over his sweat-slick neck. From the corner of his eye, he saw the farmer turned away from him, still tending to his herbs.

Valjean knelt down. The bucket was placed right next to the pile of sun-bleached wood. When he had carried root after root from the field and piled them up, he had been careful where he placed each—the pile was a towering jumble of dead wood, and not even the most careful observer would have been able to tell that it had only grown into three directions. 

Now, Valjean carefully lifted a rock. Behind it, a length of splintered wood could be seen: the broken handle of the shovel. Quickly, Valjean pulled it from the pile. With the help of the rock, he tore the bent nail free. Then he pushed the handle back into its former hiding place.

Valjean's hand clenched around the nail in his hand as he reassured himself that the farmer was still watering his garden. All day he had thought of how to hide it. Keeping it inside his clothes was the easiest option—but could also easily lead to discovery should Javert search them. Did not Javert delight in making him strip and bath? And yet, had he ever seen Javert search his abandoned clothes?

There were other options. He could hide the nail in his mouth, beneath his tongue. Javert did not desire conversation from him; if he kept his head down and showed himself obedient, he would be able to make it back to Javert's bedroom without being forced to speak a single word.

With a shudder Valjean remember the touch of Javert's cudgel as Javert searched him. What if today was the day Javert would take delight in needling him for an answer? Or perhaps Javert would force him to strip and open his mouth after all?

There was another option. The thought made him pale, but given Javert's reluctance to make use of him in such a way, perhaps this was indeed the safest way to go about it: to rip a small strip of fabric from his trousers, to wrap it around the nail, to insert it into his body...

Valjean's stomach clenched as he remembered Javert against him, the hardness of Javert's arousal sliding against his buttocks.

Valjean paled. To imagine Javert searching _there_! To give Javert a reason to search him so intimately—and, if the nail were found, perhaps even a reason to cease holding back from what a part of Javert seemed to desire...?

Sweat was dripping down his back, but despite the heat of the sun, Valjean felt suddenly cold. Hastily, he drove the small, flattened nail into the hem of his trousers. The old linen gave easily and allowed the nail to pass through the hole he had made. He pushed it along until it came to rest where the shackles that encircled his ankles made the trousers fall in irregular folds, hiding any kind of shadow that might give the placement of the nail away.

Then Valjean straightened. At that moment, the farmer turned to give him another watchful look. Unperturbed, Valjean bent down to the bucket to drink deeply. Then he returned to his work on the field.

Later that day, when dusk had fallen and the light outside had dimmed, he found himself on his knees on the floor of Javert's apartment, patiently scrubbing at the dirt encrusted on his shoes.

Javert had arrived late that evening, and seemed more harried than usual. For once Valjean had not been given time to wash himself in the stream. The deviation from their usual routine had filled Valjean with trepidation, but Javert had been uncharacteristically silent on their way back. It must have been exhaustion, Valjean concluded, for right after they had finished their dinner—more stew, this time with meat he could not quite identify, although at least Javert's portress did not stint on the meat—Javert had settled into his chair with the paper in his hand. Javert had not chained him, although Valjean did not doubt that he kept his gun in his pocket. Still, it was good to be able to move freely.

Beneath Javert's tired gaze, Valjean had been made to strip once more. With a pitcher of water and the ball of soap, Valjean had slowly and meticulously washed the dust and dirt of the day's work from his skin. He could feel Javert's gaze resting heavily on his neck—a burden that weighed more than all the rocks he had carried today.

Valjean did not look up or show that he was aware of Javert's gaze. Instead, once he had finished washing himself, he brushed the dirt from his clothes as much as he was able to. The nail was still hidden within the hemline of his trousers; he could feel its weight when he moved them. 

Unhurriedly, he folded his trousers and set them aside, then began to brush at the dirt that stained his jacket instead. Every now and then, there was the rustling sound of paper when Javert turned a page. Valjean forced himself to concentrate on his work. The floor was hard beneath his knees, but the evening was warm, and his exhausted limbs were grateful for the rest. The repetitive motions were almost soothing. In any case, it calmed his fearful heart to have work to do, and as long as he was kept busy, he did not think that Javert would find a reason to search his clothes anew.

He could not say how much time had passed when he set aside the jacket as well. When he looked up, he found Javert slowly lowering his paper. Then Javert stood without a word. Valjean was acutely aware of the trousers that rested next to him, innocently folded. All it would take was a single touch to give his small rebellion away...

Valjean flinched when something hit the ground in front of him.

Javert's boots. When he raised his eyes, Javert pushed a small box at him.

“It's about time you made yourself useful,” Javert muttered. His eyes were impenetrable.

Valjean's hands did not shake as he accepted the box. Javert remained standing in front of him for one moment, staring at him until Valjean bowed his head and opened it.

Inside, he found a smaller brush and a small tin of black polish.

Slowly, Javert stalked back to his chair to settle down once more, taking hold of his paper again. Were his eyes still on Valjean? Valjean did not dare to look up to find out.

Instead, Valjean took hold of the brush. Then, carefully, he began to polish Javert's boots. They were worn, the leather soft beneath his hands. With slow, circular motions, he rubbed the paste into the leather until it was gleaming black once more. He was acutely aware of the hard floor beneath him. Javert had not chained him; but even so, iron still encircled his throat. A mere hand's breadth from him, the nail still remained hidden in the seams of his trousers.

Paper rustled. When Valjean at last looked up, he found that Javert had opened his paper once more, but his gaze was still resting on Valjean. There was no emotion in Javert's eyes that he could read, although there were lines around his mouth that betrayed his exhaustion. Even so, it had not softened the intensity of his gaze.

Chastened, Valjean bent his head once more, the back of his neck heating as he resumed his work. He brushed at the leather patiently, working in the polish as deeply and as evenly as he could. The leather was too worn to take the color evenly; no matter how careful he was, there were several patches where the leather was scuffed and remained dull even after several applications of the polish. Nevertheless, after another hour had passed, Javert rose and took the boots from him, seemingly satisfied with Valjean's work.

Was now the time when Javert would turn in?

Valjean's heart began to race once more. If so, he would be led into the bedroom and chained there any moment now...

While Javert's back was turned for one moment as he returned the box to the shelf from which he had fetched it, Valjean's hand shot out. He did not dare to breathe as he quickly worked the nail out from the hem, leaving another hole behind in the already threadbare fabric.

Valjean's hand clenched around the nail. Then Javert turned, and his chance to hide it somewhere else on him was gone.

Slowly, Javert stepped in front of him. Once more he stared down at Valjean with an unreadable expression. Valjean looked back. This time, he did not bother to hide his own exhaustion. At last, a small smile appeared on Javert's face, the narrow lips rising to reveal his teeth.

"One more day out on the field for you tomorrow," Javert said with satisfaction. "We'll find something else for you next week. Idleness doesn't suit you."

"Yes, monsieur," Valjean said quietly, allowing a small amount of despair to shine through, and Javert's smile widened.

"Come along," Javert commanded.

Once more Valjean found himself led into the bedroom. Javert did not watch him closely, and so he never saw the small nail that was still carefully hidden in Valjean's hand. It remained there for the time it took Javert to fall asleep while Valjean laid silently in the darkness, listening to the sound of Javert's breathing.

At last, when an hour might have passed, his hand patiently sought out a crooked board in the wall. His fingers had explored it in the darkness of past nights. Now, he pushed the small nail into a narrow opening in the wood. He had stared at the tiny crack every morning when he woke. The wood was dark, the opening dusty. The nail would be invisible—unless Javert were to lie down by his side and stare straight at the wood.

Something about that thought made Valjean shudder, and he quickly turned and pulled the blanket more tightly around himself before he closed his eyes.


	18. Chapter 18

One week later, one of those late summer storms that herald the passing of the season had arrived. It had swept through the towns near the coast with enough force to rattle walls and windows, shatter several shingles and fell branches and trees in the forest.

Javert had risen early that day, giving Jean Valjean an irritable look. It did not sit well with him to leave the man on his own in his apartment, idle when by all rights Valjean should sweat in penance for a life of crimes and deceit.

Still, there was nothing to be done. In the week that had passed since Valjean had finished clearing the farmer's field, Javert had found work for him repairing a wall that had toppled over. Still, the work had accounted for only two days out of the seven, and Javert disliked the knowledge that Jean Valjean whiled away the hours in his bedroom, for all he knew already planning new crimes as Javert patrolled the streets,.

“Inspector Javert,” a voice cried even before he had entered the station-house, “come quickly! A tree has fallen and blocks the bridge!”

Grimly, Javert opened the door to the station-house. It was very early; the building was still empty. He left a terse note, although he need not have bothered: when they exited through the gate, Philippe came running, having spied them as he was on his way to work. Philippe was the newest arrival; a round-faced man who was older than he looked, his hair already thinning, much given to good food and wasteful with his time, but, as police agents went, more reliable than most.

Together, they found the bridge blocked just as the boy leading them here had proclaimed. He was a miller's apprentice, gangly and with a crooked nose that had recently been broken. The miller was waiting by the bridge with a cart full of sacks of flour—and there, on the other side of the bride, a coach stood waiting as well.

“And the mail from Paris will come by soon,” Philippe said, sweating already from the short walk past the ramparts. “Can the miller's horse not drag that tree off the bridge?”

“Will you pay me for my horse?” the miller said in irritation, his face red. He held up a rope that had torn in two. “And we wouldn't need you for that, would we? We've already tried. Come now, we need to use this bridge, I can't afford to take a detour. And what about those travelers yonder? Will you tell the good elector waiting there to step out and lift the tree, he? Like one of your convicts, yes?”

“We need a jack,” Philippe said, eyeing the tree with the frustration of the man who still felt the repercussions of the past evening's extensive dinner.

Javert smiled—a thin, superior smile. He ignored the cursing miller as he stared straight at the felled tree, its trunk broader than a man's chest. A deep triumph filled him.

“I have a jack,” he said simply, and his smile widened.

Twenty minutes later, a red-faced Philippe was leading Jean Valjean back towards them. Javert had elected to hand Philippe his keys and keep watch by the blocked bridge, for he did not trust Philippe to keep the coach drivers under control, especially as the mail coach had also arrived.

In any case, the man seemed to have succeeded in keeping Valjean subdued for the walk through town and past the ramparts. Valjean's hands were chained; once they had arrived, Javert gave Philippe a nod and then freed Valjean's hands.

“Lift that tree over there,” Javert ordered.

Valjean, his shoulders hunched a little at the curious gazes from both the miller and the coaches at the other end of the bridge, took a step forward.

“It's the mayor!” the miller's apprentice shouted.

Javert smiled once more.

“There's no mayor here. No magistrate. His name is Jean Valjean,” he said with deep pleasure. “In Toulon, they called him Jean-le-Cric. Let's see your strength, eh, Cric?”

Valjean was holding his gaze, a hectic flush on his face. From the other end of the bridge, they could hear the loud murmur of voices as the news spread. A carriage door opened, and a moment later, the scene had gathered two new spectators.

“Come now, you've been so eager to show off when it was old Father Fauchelevent. Or is this audience not to your liking?”

Javert held his cudgel in his hand, even though he was certain there would be no need to use it. Many infamous criminals seemed to prefer an audience awed and frightened by their terrible crimes. Jean Valjean, on the other hand, blushed like a virgin on her wedding night when the people of this town beheld him. It was most curious—and yet Javert had little patience for such games right now. 

“Hurry up,” he snapped, impatiently slapping his cudgel into his hand.

At the sound, Valjean lowered his head and obediently went towards the tree.

It had grown by the side of the river, right where the bridge rose. Perhaps its roots had begun to rot in the damp earth; in any event, the past night's storm had pushed it right over, so that it fell straight across the bridge and barred the passage for any traveler.

Now Jean Valjean walked towards it. For a moment, Javert grew uncertain when he saw Valjean standing next to the large tree. Surely one man alone could not move such a tree, even if that man was Jean Valjean. Would Valjean fail; would Javert have to bear the waiting coach drivers' ire?

Then Valjean went to his knees. Javert held his breath; something about the sight held him captive. Valjean, in his simple, worn clothes and with the collar of iron around his neck, could have been the prisoner he had known in Toulon—or he could have been the mayor who had knelt with that same desperate grace, all suffering and triumph as though he deemed himself above Javert, when in truth Javert had at that moment known that the martyr's halo hid the stink of the bagne.

And yet, even now that he knew what exactly Jean Valjean was, something about the sight stole his breath. By all accounts that tree was too large to be moved by three men alone, but Jean Valjean knelt, and that powerful body strained, and little by little, the tree shifted.

Javert's mouth was dry. He could not speak. Sweat glistened on Valjean's brow. He was very pale, his hair shining in the light of the sun.

Entranced, Javert watched as Valjean lifted the tree further. The muscles of his arms bulged, his shoulders as tense as ropes of steel, the tension unbearable. Surely, any moment something would have to give?

Sweat dripped down Valjean's face. His shirt was damp with it. Little by little, those powerful thighs straightened. The tree groaned, a sound as inhuman as the feat Javert had just watched. Then—at first almost impossible to notice, then faster and faster—it began to slide. At last, with a final groan, it toppled over the side of the bridge to fall into the water below with a loud splash.

Droplets of water hit Javert's face, but he did not move. His eyes were still trained on Jean Valjean, who now raised his own head to meet his gaze. This time, there was none of the triumph of the martyr in his gaze. Instead, there was only a great weariness, and perhaps a hint of fear.

Javert's gaze trailed lower. Valjean's chest was heaving. The exertion had left the man out of breath. His heart had to be pumping in his chest; his clothes were soaked with sweat and dirt from the tree. The man would need another bath, Javert admitted silently to himself, his mouth still dry as he followed the lines of those powerful limbs. To think of those straining thighs, those bulging muscles, and imagine that this man had slept peacefully chained in his bedroom for more than a week...

But there was no danger. None at all.

Valjean lowered his head, his eyes half-closed as he leaned against the parapet. There; the man was not thinking of rebellion. As long as he was kept busy, there was no time for idleness to give him ideas.

Javert released the breath he had held, and then stepped up to him to chain his hands once more. Valjean offered them without protest, keeping his eyes averted. Whether it was tiredness or respect that kept him obedient, Javert did not care. Still, there was a pleasure in seeing the iron encircle the broad neck and know this beast of a man properly subdued.

“Enough. Wait there,” Javert said tersely and pointed at a spot to the side of the bridge. Then he gestured towards the waiting coaches.

Slowly, the carriages crossed the bridge. From the windows, curious faces were staring at where Valjean was still waiting. Once more Javert felt satisfaction well up within him as he thought of how in the inn, these guests would be told the story of Jean Valjean.

Once the miller and his apprentice had rolled past him with their cart of flour as well, Javert nodded towards Philippe.

“That is enough for today. The road is passable again.”

“Do you need me to take him back?” Philippe inquired, his face redder than before as he fixed Valjean with a stare of the utmost discomfort.

Again Javert's smile widened.

“Come now, Philippe, he is in irons. Couldn't harm a fly this way. But if you will go on and write up the report, I'll bring him back home myself.”

Visibly relieved, Philippe nodded and set off at a brisk pace, as though he was afraid that Javert might change his mind. Javert laughed voicelessly, suddenly in a good mood.

As they returned to the town, Valjean continued to be on his best behavior, remaining quiet and docile. Javert did not have to lead him by the chain; he followed along willingly enough. And of course, what would rebellion bring him? Nothing but the lash.

When they passed the hotel where the coach had halted, the story had already begun to spread of how it was Jean Valjean who had been forced to lift the tree, the infamous convict who had once pretended to be Madeleine. There was a small crowd gathered by the coach, three of the guests entertaining a few of the town's gossips with the tale of the tree.

When Javert approached, all heads turned, and he could hear Valjean's step falter behind him.

“Come now,” Javert said merrily, “that was a feat, those accolades are quite deserved. Shall we hear what they have to say?”

How pleasing it was to have found the hole in Valjean's armor. The man could pretend that he was an innocent as much as he wanted—but this was more like it than those evenings where Valjean pretended to desire nothing but the company of his bible.

The arrivals—a well-clad bourgeois family, it seemed—had already been told the tale of Jean Valjean's villainous history. Now, as Javert stopped by them, the woman took a step back while the men marveled at Valjean's strength.

“Inspector, that is quite an animal you are guarding,” one of them said cheerfully. “Would that every former mayor were so intent on assisting visitors, our travels would go much faster!”

“Come now, Pierre,” the other replied, “my sister would never leave Paris at all if there were brutes appointed as mayors all over the country! No, those chains there suit him best—truly, he looks bestial. Are you quite sure, Inspector, that it is the same man? Why, if it had been me, I would have picked him out as a criminal the moment he first came to this town.”

Javert's smile thinned. “Monsieur, you would have been hard-pressed to do so. His disguise was very cunning. They even offered him the Légion d'Honneur.”

“He does not have freedom to roam the streets, does he?” the woman asked, her voice weak as she stared at Valjean with wide, frightened eyes. “What a terrible sight! I've never been so close to a convict!”

“Madame, he is kept chained and locked day and night. I assure you that you are perfectly safe here in Montreuil.” Javert bowed politely, then turned to lead Valjean back to his home—only to be struck by a sight he had not expected.

Someone else had stepped up to Jean Valjean. It was Sister Simplice, who had quietly joined the small gathering, and was now offering Valjean a cup of water.

“Please be careful,” Javert said curtly, not quite able to point down why the sight alarmed him so. “He is bound, but it is best not to take any chances.”

“The Lord is my shepherd, Inspector Javert.” Calmly, Sister Simplice held out the cup until Valjean's hand closed around it. “He watches over sisters of charity and convicts alike.”

“But even the good Lord would feel safer with this beast in chains,” one of the bourgeois interjected, and the small group laughed.

Javert stared at Valjean. The convict's face was flushed. He kept his eyes carefully averted as he raised the cup and drank.

“And it was God, too, who kept watch over this town and at last delivered this man to his rightful punishment,” Javert said with satisfaction. 

“God's justice is a slow and ineffable thing.” Sister Simplice spoke with perfect tranquility, as though there was not a convict standing right next to her. “Man may not question or even understand it, but He sees all, and He knows all, and those who suffer from the injustice of this world must not lose hope that He will right all that is wrong.”

Javert acknowledged her words with a nod of his head. “And yet it makes our visitors feel safer to know that, with God's help, justice came quickly this time. As it should be.”

Sister Simplice had not moved. She, too, was watching Jean Valjean drink.

“A man cannot own another, Inspector,” she said at last, her voice quiet but with all the severity of authority behind it. “Do not forget that you were both made and will return to the same hand. To believe anything else is dangerously close to the path the devil might use to lead good men astray.”

Javert clenched his jaw, a dull anger unfurling in his chest, somewhere below his heart. Was this the voice of rebellion? Her words frustrated him; he could dimly sense a meaning he did not like very much, and yet surely the interpretation of scripture was not for him, just as the making of the law was for his superiors, and not Javert.

“It is a good thing then that he is not a man anymore in the eyes of the law,” he said with the utmost respect. “Good day, Sister. I must lock him away before he frightens our visitors.”

Javert watched as Valjean quietly returned the cup, still angry for some reason he could not quite pin down. Valjean did not look at Javert. He had been perfectly well-behaved. Even so, Javert grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pushed him roughly into the direction of his home.

“Move along,” he said through clenched teeth. “This town is no place for bandits and criminals, and by God, I will keep it so.”


	19. Chapter 19

Valjean had to wait an entire week until he could start to set his plan into motion. For several days, Javert had allowed a different farmer to make use of him as a mender of walls, although it left Javert highly suspicious to have Valjean out of his sight all day, for Valjean could easily vanish into the forest should he managed to shatter his chains.

There were times Valjean had entertained that thought, especially the morning he woke to find Javert pretending to still be asleep, and then, when he could remain abed no longer, visibly aroused. As Javert all but fled the bedroom to wash, his prick had been tenting his shirt quite indecently, leaving Valjean chained and afraid.

Still, Javert had not touched him even then, although it would have been well within his right. Who would fault him for making use of a convict he had paid two hundred francs for? Worse, a convict who had—quite willingly—given himself to others before?

The memories made Valjean shudder even now, discomfort and the memory of pleasure mingling until he felt nearly sick with the old confusion.

He had thought these things left in the past. But perhaps Javert was right at least in this: a man like him could never leave the bagne behind. Those pitiful cravings were a part of him, as much as he had desired to deny it. And yet, were not all men pitiful creatures, and were not all given grace by God alone?

There was nobleness even for a man like him in denying those base cravings of his body. Those had been little more than the comforts an animal hungered for: companionship and warmth in a time of terror.

But here, in Montreuil, it had been different. As Madeleine, he had thought to lead a good life—but perhaps he had fallen into new faults. Perhaps even the shame of being chained and branded like an animal might yet lead to Heaven, if he could but bear this cross with the humility that Madeleine had lacked.

There would be ways to lead a life of goodness, once he had escaped the collar and the chains. Even for this scarred body, there could be a life in the light. He had been given the guidance of the Bishop, that holy man who even in his dimming recollection still shone as brightly as the sun. How could Valjean falter from his path when even now, he knew that those eyes were watching him?

A tremor of shame ran through him as he thought of that good man beholding the collar on him, the brand on his chest, the ignominy of being dragged out in chains and stripped and threatened with a beating. To think of the Bishop seeing what had become of him was almost worse than being exposed before people who had once treated him with respect and admiration.

Moreover, what would the Bishop think should he have seen Valjean's body rouse despite himself at the all too familiar sensation of chains on him and a hard, warm body against him?

Valjean blushed in mortification, thinking once more of how Javert had woken in a similar state this morning. Surely it was only a matter of time until Javert would realize that it was a waste of his money not to demand satisfaction from Valjean.

No, there was no choice but to take his chance now and make his escape. Montfermeil was not far. And in all this time, no one had discovered where he had hid those six hundred francs. Once he had that money, it would be easy to vanish in Paris, where there was a steady supply of new coats and wigs, and different names and lodgings.

Javert had left early today. It was still not quite light outside. In the gloom of the small bedchamber, Valjean retrieved the nail from the small crack where he had kept it hidden. Then he set to work.

It took some time and patience, but this, too, was a skill which, once learned in the bagne, was not quickly forgotten. At last, the chain connected to his collar fell away, the small lock opened by the push of the nail, and for the first time in weeks, Valjean was free.

He did not stop to think. It was getting lighter outside; soon the sun would herald the beginning of the workday and the streets would fill. Jean Valjean needed to make his escape before that time, slipping out of the town before someone might notice him.

Javert usually came by at noon to check on him. This gave him several hours during which he had to make sure to leave Montreuil as far behind as possible. As soon as Javert realized that Valjean was gone, he would watch the coaches and the inns where they stopped. Valjean needed to be either faster than the agents of police, or find a safe place where he could wait until Javert gave up the hunt for him.

Quickly and silently, Valjean dressed. He pulled on the shirt and trousers that had served him well during the past days; these would pass for simple workman's clothes, as long as he kept chain and brand hidden.

From Javert's drawers, he took a simple cotton cravat and tied it securely, pausing for a long moment before the old mirror, his heart pounding in his chest.

It would do, for a cursory glance at least. He would need to find a compassionate blacksmith, or at the very least one with an open hand and a closed mouth—and for that in turn he would need the money he had hidden.

After a moment's hesitation, he left his own threadbare jacket behind and instead took Javert's old coat. Tightly buttoned and with the cravat covering what was visible of his throat, he looked respectable enough—not a sliver of the collar was to be seen. It would suffice to fool a casual observer, and for now, that was all he could hope for.

In the drawer from which he had taken the cravat, Javert had kept the coins Valjean's labor had earned him this week. Again Valjean felt distaste well up in him—he was not a thief, and he would rather starve than steal again. And yet, to leave without a single coin would make escape far more difficult. With Javert's money, he could pay a blacksmith...

What would the Bishop say, to see him revert to a life of crime so quickly? Could he truly prove Javert right by stealing from him? And yet—was not even the price of his soul a price worth paying, compared to the suffering of Fantine and the child he had promised to protect?

At last, he reached into the drawer and took hold of the money. The coins were heavy in his hand, even though he promised himself that he would find a way to repay Javert after he had made it to Montfermeil.

Outside, he could now hear the steps of the water carrier. Carefully, he opened the window. There was Javert's landlady, pressing a coin into the man's hand before he continued on his way with his heavy burden.

The woman left. Valjean waited with outward patience, even though his heart was still racing in his chest. Five minutes later, she stepped out into the small street with an empty basket in her hand.

Valjean took a deep breath. He waited until she, too, had turned the corner.

Then he closed the window and, as quickly and noiselessly as possible, left behind Javert's small apartment and the house in which he had been a slave for the past few weeks.

Leaving Montreuil was easier than he had feared. He had made his escape at just that moment when the vendors at the marketplace were setting up their stalls while most of the people of Montreuil were still in bed. Only twice did he meet someone on the deserted streets: one was another water carrier who ignored him under his heavy burden, the other a young girl of no more than seven who was dragging two young geese along with her on a string.

Once he had left behind the ramparts, he continued walking at a normal pace as long as he was still in sight of the town. As soon as he had made his way past a small hill that shielded him from view, he dropped all pretense that he was a normal traveler. To his left was the forest; he now left the road and hastened towards it, listening for the sound of pursue.

But everything was silent. There were no shouts, no ringing bells, no clatter of hooves or carriages.

He was free.

Above him, a canopy of leaves spread, shielding him from sunlight. He had to pause for a moment, his shirt soaked with sweat. The iron was tight and heavy around his throat, reminding him that he had not yet made it to safety. He would not be safe for a very long time, not until he had acquired new papers and a new name and gotten rid of the collar.

But this was a start.

For half an hour, he made his way through the forest of Fèque, until he came upon the path that led to Frocourt. This path he used to march west as quickly as was possible, always listening for the sound of his pursuers. Whenever there was a creak or the cries of disturbed birds in the distance, he'd rush off the path and find a hiding place behind a tree or a bush, staying silent until other travelers had moved past.

Here in the forest, without the sun to guide him, it was difficult to track how much time had passed: perhaps two hours since he had left. It was warmer—not noon yet, but surely in another two or three hours Javert would return and find his apartment empty.

Valjean needed to make it past St. Léger by then. He had the coins he had taken from Javert's dresser in his pocket; these might buy him food, or enable him to travel more quickly in a coach. The coins would not last long, but he would be able to—if he was very lucky—outrun the spread of news about his escape. And once he had made it to a larger town, it would be easier to lose his pursuers among the many men who were daily arriving and leaving those places.

As it happened, Valjean found a ride sooner than expected.

The heat of the sun above him told him that it was noon; Javert might have already discovered his bedroom and the abandoned chain. Valjean had left the forest behind, reasoning that it would be best to try and catch the coach in St. Léger when from the east, a cart arrived. It was driven by a white-haired man, his hands gnarled and his nose reddened from wine, his cart loaded with the tools of the tinkerer's trade. Valjean, seeing his chance, offered a handful of sous to travel with the man to St. Aubin, where he could then take a coach to bring him close to Montfermeil.

With any luck, Javert was busy searching the streets leading towards Paris. Right now, they were still a few hours ahead of whomever Javert might send out; furthermore, they were traveling to the northwest, where certainly Javert would not think to search. No, Javert would expect him in Paris; perhaps even in Montfermeil, for Javert would not forget that Fantine's child was there. But if his luck held up, Valjean would make it to St. Aubin and into a coach there before Javert's agents arrived.

The tinkerer was, despite the odor of sour wine that surrounded him, a sharp-eyed fellow. Once they arrived in St. Aubin, Valjean made certain to pay twice what he had promised; still, he was not certain whether the man might not immediately stop at the next station-house after all. Hastily, Valjean made his way towards the inn, where to his great fortune a diligence was still waiting.

It was not the coach to Paris; this one would take the road to Rouen, continuing further west to the coast and then south. But as this was not where Javert would expect him to go, Valjean bribed the postillon to take one of the seats on top of the diligence. Still wrapped in Javert's coat and cravat, the iron a burning secret against the skin of his throat, he sat silently, pretending to nod off to sleep while the coach clattering through Gournay, the tall beeches of the royal forest of Lyons, and along the Andelle, until they finally crossed it at Pond St. Pierre.

Darkness had already fallen when they entered Rouen. The man who had to open the gate for the diligence gave Valjean only a bored look and then allowed them through. Nevertheless, Valjean slipped silently away from the coach as they rolled through empty streets, eager to make his way away from the places where perhaps this very moment, a rider might have arrived with news from Montreuil. Instead, he hastened through empty streets until the alleys became dark and narrow and the houses more ramshackle.

Valjean weighed the coins in his pocket carefully in his hand. Was it enough to persuade a blacksmith to take the collar off from around his neck?

There were only a few coins left—but at the same time, he feared that he had no choice but to try his luck. The brand was easier to hide, as long as he remained clothed; the collar would immediately give him away should his cravat shift.

After walking through these narrow streets for a while, he came upon a tavern. Its windows were dirty, the sign above the door so withered that the name it had once carried could no longer be made out. There was a broken bottle near the door, and the stink of refuse in the street.

For an escaped convict, there are in every town friendly places where one can find shelter and a meal, or new clothes in which to continue one's journey. These places are known to the convicts by common signs shared among such men. Jean Valjean, who had not slept or rested or eaten a bite of food since he had risen from his mattress this morning, took one long, silent look at that door, and then slowly made his way inside.

It was indeed an establishment that served the needs of escaped convicts and other criminals on the run. With some luck, Valjean might have traded in his last coins for a meal and a pile of straw in the stable, as well as advice for how best to leave the town unrecognized.

Yet here Valjean's luck left him. As soon as he had made his way over to the fire, one of the men who had sat idly in another corner rose and approached him.

“He!” the man said, staring at Jean Valjean with an expression of delight, “It is Jean-le-Cric!”

The man who greeted him had, it turned out, been in Toulon for six of the nineteen years Valjean had spent there. And, as is often the custom with such meetings, this recognition and the fame of Valjean's reputation bought him not only a bottle of wine, shared with the man in a corner by the fire, but an offer of employment.

“A man must earn a living, eh?” the man said.

His name was Jean-Michel, and it seemed that after Toulon, where he had been brought for forgeries, upon his release he had found a taste for the simpler work of robbery. Here, his old talents would often bring him information about empty houses and the times when a rich bourgeois would spend a night out of town.

Tonight, it seemed, there was just such a house and such an opportunity. With mounting horror, Valjean listened to Jean-Michel's description. Had fate conspired to strip from him all the good he had done, casting him back into that darkness which he had striven so long to leave behind?

And yet, what choice was there? There was still the collar around his neck and the brand on his chest. Jean-Michel, who seemed so sympathetic now, would without a doubt turn against him and report him to the next agent of police should Valjean refuse to do his bidding.

Sweating in the heat of the fire, Valjean could barely taste the wine. Was he imagining it, or was the innkeeper already eyeing him with suspicion?

At last, Jean Valjean made a choice. With shaking fingers he undid the cravat, bearing his neck and the collar to Jean-Michel's gaze.

“I won't do it with this on me,” Valjean said, falling easily back into the slang of the bagne. “But get this off me first, and I'll help you with the job.”

As fate had it, Jean-Michel did not even have to find a blacksmith for him. The innkeeper's nephew, a brawler with a broken nose, had once been apprenticed to a blacksmith, before he'd decided to take up the trade of robbery and murder instead. In a backroom of the inn, he took off the collar with ringing beats of hammer and chisel. Not much later—it was already past midnight—Valjean found himself in the company of that same apprentice and his old acquaintance Jean-Michel, hidden in the shadows near a large wall which guarded an apothecary's house.

During all the hours leading up to this terrible conundrum Valjean found himself in, he had thought long and hard about what alternative there might be. To give himself up to the police: unthinkable. And yet, would it not be better to suffer Javert's fury than to fall back into evil once more?

He knew that there was truly only one choice to make that might reward him with the heavenly grace he knew himself so undeserving of. And yet, no matter how his soul pulled him towards that act, he was unable to shake the memory of the iron around his neck, a shudder running through his body when he contemplated Javert's eyes on him once more.

No. He could not bring himself to surrender to the state. At the same time, he could not simply run; Jean-Michel and his friend were well-armed and wary, keeping a suspicious eye on him. If it came to a fight, they might be harmed, and Valjean felt himself filled by horror at the thought.

He had just resigned himself to enter the home of the absent apothecary before raising an alarm that would alert the neighbors, while hopefully also allowing him to flee, when fate came once more to his rescue.

A patrol was near: four armed agents of the state were shining their lamps into the street where Valjean was crouching against the wall with the two ruffians. Had someone betrayed Jean-Michel?

There was no time to lose now. Valjean knew that should he be arrested in the company of these men, it would not go well for him. And so, with the lamps still shining into their direction, he jumped up from their hiding place, betraying their position to the patrol who came hastening towards them with shouts.

But Valjean was already halfway up the wall. He dropped into the garden beyond and crossed it before those agents had even reached the wall. To the sound of the scuffle behind him, he blindly climbed the wall in some other place, then ran along it to where it ended against a house. Here, Valjean made use of a rain gutter. Before the first agent had even shone his lamp into the garden, Valjean was crossing the roofs of several houses before he dropped quietly into a dark street, safely away from the ruckus.

He left the town that same night with neither food nor money.

A two day's journey on his feet brought him to the tiny hamlet of Cravent; there, he found a man who bought Javert's old coat from him, paying three francs for the warm wool. Even now, Valjean could not shake the fear of his pursuers, and he dared not remain for the night, although he was offered a bed in the man's stable.

Still, as he journeyed onward with coins in his pocket and a hunk of bread in his hand, for the first time he felt truly free. Now, he was weighed down neither by Javert's collar nor by his coat, and the road stretched out in front of him all the way to Montfermeil, where an old promise was waiting for him.


	20. Chapter 20

There were three moments in Javert's life which had left an impression so deep and unerasable that the memory had burned itself into his mind, never to be forgotten.

One was the moment when he had stood before the mayor of Montreuil and asked to be dismissed, knowing himself to have committed a terrible and unforgivable offense.

Another was the deep triumph when Javert himself had locked Jean Valjean into the jail of Montreuil after his confession at Arras. The man had not met his eyes then, but Javert had looked his fill, nearly drunk on triumph and vindication, and cross with himself for having doubted for so long. At that moment, all of the convict's past crimes seemed to be on display in the lines of his face and the lowered eyes.

The third was the moment the brand had been seared into Valjean's skin. It had not been revenge, for Javert was above such concerns. Instead, it had seemed to him a superior's final stamp of approval on a case solved in long and laborious work by his own hand. The mayor was no more; the convict had been returned to where he belonged. 

This latter memory reappeared from time to time as if by its own during those quiet moments of the day when an ordinary man would succumb to daydreams, and often left Javert with a vague unease. And yet, it was not that he was gloating or deriving satisfaction from the man's misery, or so he told himself.

His purchase of Jean Valjean and the _J_ seared into the skin of his chest had been but a sign of a file being closed once and for all. If the memory of the bared, heaving breast or the chained muscles straining with agony were an image he lingered on, then it was simply because Valjean's crimes had upset Javert's life for too many years; who if not Javert had a right to find satisfaction in knowing this convict returned to his rightful place at last?

Now, there was a fourth moment that had seared itself into his brain with all the agony he had observed in Toulon. It was the moment when Javert had returned to his lodgings at noon and found his bedroom empty, the chain unlocked, the captive fled.

Jean Valjean had escaped once more, and, seething with humiliation, Javert had followed him. To stand before the commissaire and to have to report this terrible thing that had happened was a humiliation not unlike the moment when Jean Valjean had reprimanded him right there in the station-house in the matter of the prostitute. Worse: to walk through the streets of Montreuil and question those who might have seen a sign of Valjean's escape, and to see them look at him with scorn or mockery! As if Javert had not taken every possible precaution to keep the criminal contained!

But the man was in chains yet: Valjean could not have taken off the collar, not without a blacksmith to do the work for him. And there was the brand on his chest—the brand that had just barely begun to heal. Valjean might cover it up, but he could never get rid of it, the way he had gotten rid of his chains. Sooner or later, someone would see the signs.

Still, Javert could not wait until such a moment. The outrage of this great crime was too large. Should he now continue his work in the knowledge that every beggar on the street, every thief was laughing at him behind his back?

There was only one thing to be done. Javert needed to find Jean Valjean. And this time, he would be certain that the man received his just punishment. Javert had been too lenient with him. How often had he told Valjean that a word of disobedience would gain him the lash? And yet, how often had the man tasted it?

This was what came of his kindness, Javert thought when the third day dawned on his small, empty apartment. He had barely slept. Several times, he had woken during the night with a start, but whenever he had sat up and turned to look at where by all rights, Jean Valjean should be sleeping, safely chained, the straw mattress had been abandoned, the length of chain still glinting on the floor in the moonlight.

Javert felt something twist inside his stomach as he stared at it: cold fury at this unspeakable rebellion, humiliation at having been tricked by a convict slave, and something that burned deep and hot within him as he thought of what he would do once he had Valjean in his power again.

How prettily Valjean had pleaded when he had held his balls in his hands! But no amount of pleading would help Jean Valjean now.

This ember of fury was fanned to bright fire when at last, close to noon, news arrived that a man who fit Jean Valjean's description had been seen in the company of known criminals in Rouen.

Two criminals had been arrested just when they were about to rob a bourgeois's house—one of them a former convict, the other a blacksmith's apprentice. And their confession revealed a further detail, which set Javert's heart to racing with the burgeoning pleasure of knowing the mouse close to capture. The apprentice claimed to have removed an iron collar from around the third man's neck, who had escaped the patrol.

It had to be Jean Valjean. Why had he gone to Rouen? Was he staying close to the coast in the hope of finding some fisherman's boat willing to take him—but no. Valjean must have money hidden away somewhere. He would not leave without retrieving it. Furthermore, had he not once begged Javert to be allowed to go and collect the whore's child?

Inquiries Javert had made afterwards showed that Fantine had sent letters to an inn in Montfermeil, and the nuns had confirmed that Jean Valjean had promised her that the child would be returned from that place.

Yet another of the mayor's lies, Javert had thought at the time—but what if that was still where Valjean was planning on hiding? Had he gone to Rouen first because he knew that Javert would search the roads toward Paris instead? Was Valjean just biding his time, slowly making his way towards Montfermeil while waiting for Javert to abandon the chase after a few days had passed?

Jean Valjean would soon find out that Javert was not so easily tricked. And oh, how Valjean would regret this great insult...

Javert did not have a lot of money left. There was the debt he now owed after the purchase of Valjean. Valjean had earned some money by his labor these past two weeks, that was true—but the man had stolen half of what he had earned, money that by all rights belonged to Javert, just one more insult in this long list of infractions.

Javert could hardly afford to spend his days running after Valjean when there was work for him to do in Montreuil. Moreover, he desperately needed the money his work would earn before the onset of winter, which would as always increase his expenses when it came to the purchase of firewood. And then, Valjean had dared to steal his coat as well, and a new coat for the winter would set him back several francs.

“Absolutely out of the question,” the commissaire said when Javert came to humbly ask for his support. “He's your problem. How would I explain such expenses to Paris? Hunting down the escaped slave of a citizen? No, that is not a problem of the state. They'll catch him soon enough, and then he'll be returned to you; or maybe they'll save you the trouble and shoot him straight away. Would serve you right, Javert—good God, man, what were you thinking? Purchasing a slave, and then _that_ man of all things?”

Rigidly, Javert stood before the commissaire, humiliation and outrage warring within him. He could not fault his superior for his reaction. A part of Javert had always known that purchasing Jean Valjean was above his station. An elector might own such a convict slave—but a mere police spy?

And yet, the sight that broad, powerful body resting in a corner of his bedroom had been exhilarating and gratifying at once. As much as the sight had always unsettled him, there had been a certain satisfaction, too. Javert had always known that he was more suited than any other to keep Jean Valjean where he belonged, because Javert knew where he came from.

“I'll grant you your leave,” the commissaire finally said. “But heed me well, Javert: this is the final time. It was Paris that sent you down to Toulon; well, Paris didn't have to pick up the slack for those weeks of absence! You have a week to go and catch him. After that week is over, you'll be back here, ready to do your work with no more talk of convict slaves—otherwise I'll have to look for someone else to fill your position. And don't get me wrong, Javert: even without a patron such as yours, there are a hundred men eager for your position.”

Javert swallowed down the bitterness that wanted to rise up. Could the commissaire not see that to allow even one single convict such as Jean Valjean to openly flaunt the law was to incite rebellion from every other unsavory person in these parts? But he could not lecture a superior on the law. Furthermore, the commissaire had other concerns than just the capture of criminals, and Javert was just as happy to have no knowledge of what politics his superiors might be involved in.

“One week will be enough, monsieur,” he said and bowed. On his way back to his apartment, he counted the coins in his pocket. He had need of this month's wages to pay the rent that would be due in ten days—yet on the other hand, he would have to return before the rent was due anyway. If he returned with Valjean—if by some chance, the man still had some of the money he had stolen on him...

To count on such a thing was foolish, Javert knew that. His stomach twisted at the thought of being late with his rent for the first time in his life. He would rather not eat than be forced to beg his landlady for a delay—yet at the same time, not eating would not help him apprehend Jean Valjean. And if he wanted to make it in time, he would need a horse, for the coach to Paris had left an hour ago, and he could not afford to miss a single day.

Half an hour later, Javert left Montreuil-sur-Mer on the back of the same mare that had carried him so faithfully to Toulon and back. Javert had hoped for a faster horse, but he had not been able to afford the prices Master Scaufflaire was asking. The mare would do, he told himself. All that mattered now was to reach Montfermeil before Valjean did, and to find a way to watch the roads from Rouen. Surely this was where Valjean meant to go—it had to be.

In any case, the police in Paris had been informed of Valjean's escape and would watch out for him. One man more or less would not make much of a difference in Paris. But in a small village like Montfermeil, Javert _would_ make a difference—and it would be a difference Valjean had not counted on when he hatched his plan.

Had Javert taken the coach early in the morning, he might have made it to Paris by late evening. But traveling on a horse was slower, and the mare, as loyal as she had been during the past journey, was neither young nor spirited enough to carry him all through the night without rest. Nevertheless, he pushed her as much as he dared, stopping only shortly during the day, and driving her on through dusk until it was too dark to journey on. His plan was to rise as soon as the first rays of sunlight hit the road, arriving in Montfermeil before the sun set on the following day.

But perhaps it would pay to take a small detour. Jean Valjean was a cunning man—but so was Javert. Valjean was well acquainted with all the tricks of the escaped bagnard, but perhaps he had forgotten that Javert, too, had spent a lifetime among such men. More, Javert had underestimated Valjean once before. He would not do so again.

The inn where the prostitute's child remained was by all accounts run by a shadowy sort of man whose name was known to the local police. Javert would not be surprised at all to hear that the man and Jean Valjean were old acquaintances; perhaps the innkeeper already knew that Valjean was coming, and would report back to him as soon as Javert showed his face in the place.

Contemplating this connection, suddenly a spark of inspiration struck Javert. What if this shady figure not only safeguarded the child, but also the fortune Valjean had hidden?

The more Javert thought about it, the more sense it made. Was it not strange how Valjean had pleaded to receive three days to fetch the child? A whore's child—a child Valjean claimed was not his own! It had not made much sense at the time, but what if there was more than just the child waiting for him? What if there were also the six hundred francs, left with this Thénardier? What a fine alibi it gave Valjean, who once more could play the philanthropist, claiming that he desired to save a child when it truth, it was his fortune he wanted to retrieve. Two criminals, a prostitute's get, and a coffer full of money; a strange coincidence this was indeed.

Along with the excitement of the hunt, Javert felt a sudden anger rise up inside him as well, for this was a coincidence he should have questioned much sooner. Like always found like, and the innkeeper seemed the perfect accomplice for a man of Jean Valjean's caliber.

His mind made up, Javert changed his path the next morning. Instead of heading straight to Montfermeil, he took a road that lead more towards the west, hoping that for once, he would be faster than Valjean. Several hours of travel brought him to the town of Pontoise, which Jean Valjean would surely pass through, whether he took a coach or a horse from Rouen.

Questioning the innkeeper who housed the coach travelers made him confident that Valjean had not yet slipped past his net: the inn-keeper remembered all the travelers of the past few days, and none of them resembled Valjean's description. A visit to the station-house brought further certitude: no suspicious travelers had been sighted yesterday or today. So reassured, Javert settled in for the wait.

First, he put on a beggar's outfit which he acquired for a few sous from one of the local inspector's informants. Then he found a spot in the shadows by the side of the church. There, he had a good view of the road that led into the town, and of the inn where carriages stopped. For three hours, he waited patiently. Eventually, his patience was rewarded.

It was not Jean Valjean who entered Pontoise but an old curé in a carriage drawn by a horse looking even more tired than Javert's mare. Javert, remembering Jean Valjean's inexplicable infatuation with the faith, humbly moved closer to ask for alms. The priest dropped a few sous into his hand, then left the carriage to enter the inn, where food and wine were already waiting for him. The driver, on the other hand, a man who had lost all of his hair and was as gangly as a scarecrow with the drooping, tired eyes of his horse, proved far more talkative when Javert asked about news about an old friend of his.

It seemed as if the curé and his driver had encountered just such a man as to fit Javert's description on their way to Pontoise: broad-shouldered, clad in modest clothes, with white hair that had been mostly covered by a cap drawn deep into his face. When the carriage had become stuck in the stones littering the ground of a shallow rivulet, he had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He had freed the carriage in a show of immense strength when the horse had been unable to pull it free with all its might.

The priest had offered hospitality in thanks; the man had declined and journeyed on even though they were so close to Pontoise, instead taking the road southeast towards Montfermeil.

Exhilaration filled Javert. This was just what he had been waiting for. Ten minutes later, the disguise hastily stripped off, he left the town together with the inspector and three soldiers from the local garrison.

Half an hour had passed since Valjean had lifted the stuck carriage. It did not even take twenty minutes of pursuit until they closed in on a suspiciously broad-shouldered, lonely traveler. At the sound of hooves, the man turned his head. As soon as his eyes met Javert's, all pretense fell away, and he began to run.

Jean Valjean had remained close to the forest, probably planning on hiding among the bushes at the first sight of other travelers. But this time Javert would not be outmaneuvered. Even before they closed in on Valjean, Javert had sent one of the soldiers to stay close to the edge of the forest, hoping to cut off Valjean's escape that way.

In the end, the capture proved simpler than Javert had anticipated. Jean Valjean could not outrun the horses; even so, the man was a brute, inhumanly strong. Javert still remembered the moment Valjean had wrestled the ox to its side. It was for this reason that Javert had brought reinforcement—but strangely enough, as soon as Valjean was surrounded, he ceased all efforts to defend himself. There were guns drawn on him, yet even so, Javert had seen the danger criminals posed even when overwhelmed. Many a broken nose or arm had resulted from an agent of the police too triumphant of a certain capture.

Why then was Valjean, strong enough to make a break for it even when surrounded by five armed men, submitting so docilely after his long flight? Another trick, perhaps—but if Jean Valjean hoped to make another escape, he would soon learn that this hope was futile.

Javert surveyed his helpless prey with all the hunger and covetousness of the starved wolf as he dismounted. He held his gun in his hand, and Jean Valjean was standing in front of him, his chest heaving like that of a race horse, his eyes filled with despair.

But even so, he made no move against Javert. He remained silent, although he kept his eyes fixed on Javert's face. When Javert took out the irons, Valjean even raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, as noble in that moment as any marble statue in the Tuileries, all the strength of Theseus submitting to Javert's chains.

The shackles snapped shut. They were still looking at each other. There was a strange light in Valjean's eyes, something wild and desperate. How strange that Javert had not seen it in all those days Valjean had so obediently done his bidding and slept in his bedroom, a lion pretending to be a lamb.

“Javert, please. Give me but one day to go to—” Jean Valjean began.

His voice was soft. If Javert had sometimes desired to hear him plead, here now it was: there was no hiding the desperation in the man's voice. Had he asked it, Javert did not doubt that Valjean might even have kneeled, kissing his coat as the prostitute had done.

Javert bared his teeth in the grin of the wolf. “It is Inspector Javert for the likes of you,” he said, but for once there was none of the usual rancor behind it. Oh, he had been too kind, far too kind, that much was obvious. This was where mercy led. But now it was time to show justice instead of kindness. Justice would see to it that Jean Valjean would not rebel against him for a second time.

The realization brought with it a rush of a feeling that was not unlike happiness, a vicious euphoria sweeping through Javert.

“And you have said quite enough,” he continued, his smile widening as he stared at the chained man in front of him. “But no more of that. I want to hear no more from you, Jean Valjean. Back to Pontoise we go—and then I think it is time to make good on an old promise.”


	21. Chapter 21

In the town of Pontoise, Javert secured lodgings in an old inn at the outskirts of the small town. Rather ominously, Jean Valjean was not led to the jail, nor to the blacksmith to have a new collar fitted around his throat. Instead, Valjean was brought into a small shack behind the inn which might once have housed a cow or two.

His head bent, Valjean listened to Javert's conversation with the other police agent. There was the sound of a handful of coins exchanging ownership—and then a cudgel prodding him which he ignored, breathing shallowly as he recalled all earlier threats Javert had voiced against him.

“No offense,” the man said, “but I don't want his likes in my town. Even chained. He looks like a right brute. You'll leave soon?”

Valjean could hear Javert make a displeased sound.

“Tomorrow,” Javert said at last. “If he can walk by then. Though I promise you that he won't get up to anything in this place once I'm through with him.”

“Tomorrow,” the other repeated. There was the sound of coins changing hands once more. “Or the day after. But no later than that.”

“I thank you for your assistance with this case,” Javert said stiffly.

The sound of footsteps announced that Javert was leading the other man to the door of the small building. Valjean was breathing shallowly, staring at the wall in front of him. They had tied him well. There was iron at his wrists and his ankles. They had chained him to a beam above. When he craned his head to stare at it, he realized that even with his strength, he would not be able to dislodge it—no, and if he were able to do so, the entire stable would collapse on top of them.

Yet would that not be for the best?

No, he reminded himself, breathing through the rising panic. There was the child. Cosette, Fantine's child, perhaps seven years old now, without a mother, and no more than a day's walk from this place.

Had God allowed him to come so close only to let him fail now?

He squeezed his eyes shut, listening to the sound of his heart in his breast. It was as loud as the sound of thunder. Panic had made his heart race. Every muscle in his body had tensed with terror. Perhaps he should have fought, earlier; but even then, with authority staring down at him with cold eyes and hard cudgels, the sudden horror he had felt at raising his fists against them had been insurmountable.

This could be born, he told himself, even as he stood trembling in his chains, cold sweat running down his back. Whatever Javert chose to do, it could be born, and there would be another chance. He was close to the child—and close to the money. Even if he could not find another nail to break his chains, there might be a stable boy, another ex-convict, someone who might lend a hand at the promise of money.

But before that might happen, he was still in Javert's power, and Javert might choose to do to him whatever he wanted. And there were many things Javert had threatened during the past weeks.

Had now come the moment when Javert would make good on his promise and deprive him of his manhood? Despair rose in Valjean at the thought: a great, instinctive horror at the mutilation, and a soul-deep despair at the thought of being made lesser than a man, irreversibly, no more than a bull gelded to be more docile.

Of course, there were other things Javert had threatened—other things he might want to do. Even now, the memory arose unbidden once more: Javert pressing against him, as hard as any of the men who had embraced him in the bagne.

If Javert would choose to let him have the whip instead, it would be a blessing, Valjean told himself, his body shuddering instinctively at the memory. What was pain to one like him? He had borne it so often. This was one lesson the bagne had taught him well: that pain needed to be suffered, that it could be survived, and that inevitably it would pass, and he would find himself free to contemplate escape once more. Pain only touched his body, never his soul. Let Javert have his body then; his soul had been long ago bought by another.

It was gloomy in the old shack. The air smelled of dust and old straw. The small windows were grimy; enough sunlight fell in that he could see that there was nothing in his reach that might help him escape. There was a pile of straw in one corner, an old blanket spread over it, and several old boxes in another corner.

Everything was quiet. Dust danced in the sparse light that fell in. Valjean listened to the panicked beating of his heart. Then, at last, Javert moved behind him.

"I have warned you for a long time now," Javert said. There was a fury in his voice Valjean had not heard before. "I told you what would happen to you if you dared to rebel against me. Of course, it was no good; some beasts only learn from pain, isn't that right?"

Javert pulled up Valjean's shirt. Bound by his wrists as he was, Javert couldn't pull it off completely, but he pushed it up and over Valjean's head so that his back was bared.

Valjean shuddered once more, frightened even though he knew so well what was to come.

Then Javert unfastened his trousers. Valjean's terror rose as those dropped to the floor, but he forced himself to remain still. Pleading with Javert had never helped him, and yet, even now, in his terror he thought that there had to be a way to make Javert see, that Javert had known him for years, that Valjean had only ever tried to do good in Montreuil...

Javert's hand closed around his balls once more. A soft, terrified sound of shock escaped Valjean. Javert grabbed hard enough to hurt, the action impersonal, as one might grab a horse's reins or a bull's ring.

"I've warned you," Javert said once more, "but you wouldn't listen. We'll see what happens to these once we make it back."

He squeezed harder, until tears welled up in Valjean's eyes and he shifted, but the terrible pressure constricting around the sensitive globes did not cease.

Javert leaned in. "I thought there was little sense in gelding an old dog, but by God, I will beat these bad habits from you, no matter what it takes."

Valjean panted, sweat dampening his skin. The pressure was excruciating. Then, slowly, Javert released him.

A moment later, Javert was moving behind him. There were sounds: a metal jingle, the snap of leather. Valjean's stomach twisted instinctively at the sounds he knew so well, even as he tried to tell himself that this was preferable to having his testes tormented—or cut off.

It was only pain. Pain could be borne.

"I should have taught you this lesson a long time ago," Javert said, so close now that Valjean imagined he could feel the heat of his breath on his skin. "This is what comes of your rebellion. You think you can still look down on me? Do you think you can do as you please, pretend that you are a good citizen, an elector, thinking to yourself 'that blackguard Javert' as you unravel the very order of society? Yes, that would have pleased you, wouldn't it: make the convict a mayor, make the prostitute a countess—perhaps you would have made the thief a grocer, the robber a banker, the murderer our doctor? But I have seen through your guise from the beginning. And you, who have sneered at justice, thinking yourself above it—you will learn the taste of justice now. I will not stop until you have learned it, even if I have to whip the skin off your back to do so!"

Valjean listened to the roar of his pulse in his ears. Everything else had fallen away. There was only his fear. The terror was as familiar as an old friend, bringing a strange calm with it: that moment of anticipation where he knew the horror that was to come, but was powerless to do anything but wait.

Then Javert took a step back. There was a sound—and then pain bit into Valjean's back, the first impact of whatever Javert had used to beat him with searing across his skin, as shocking and painful as the brand.

Had Javert found an old horsewhip in the stable? Was he using his own belt?

Valjean could not say. But whatever it was, it came down again, and this time, he tensed in his bonds and cried out in agony. A stripe of red was laid across his back, his nerves screaming at the pain, and even as he panted through it, Javert brought down the whip once more, again and again.

Everything else fell away. There was nothing but the pain. No matter how much Valjean strained against the iron that held him, he could not escape. And with every breath he took, Javert seared a new slash of agony across his back, as cold and merciless in this punishment as the caryatid of stone Valjean had carried on his shoulders once.

In those long moments, Javert ceased to be a man. To Valjean, who shuddered and cried out voiceless for a mercy he knew would not be granted, he had ceased to be Javert; Valjean was in Hell, and there was a faceless devil behind him; Valjean was a sinner, tormented by demons for transgressions he could not remember anymore.

At last, there was a break in the torment. Panting for breath, some of his reason returned to Valjean through the pain. The dim light of the small stable filtered into his thoughts; so did the presence of Javert, and he shuddered in impotent fear when Javert rested a gloved hand on his shoulder.

"That was for the escape," Javert said, his voice still cold with suppressed fury. "This... this is for your rebellion. For daring to steal from me. For the money you've taken from my drawer."

Once more the lash came down—but this time, it did not seek out the torn skin of his back. Instead, the leather bit into the tender skin of his thighs, laying broad stripes of red across him, and Valjean wept at the agony. He lost count of how often the whip came down. His ankles had been lashed to beams, as had his wrists; he was helpless, his vulnerable skin on display for Javert's whip. He arched in his irons as the lash bit into his skin again and again, and when it finally ceased, he sobbed hoarsely.

"And this," Javert finally said, breathless now himself, the fury in his voice still as pronounced as at the beginning, "this is for daring to steal my coat. See how you like the taste of justice now. Once, long ago, I told you that I would not have been kind to you; no, not I. See if you still doubt this. See if you still want to rebel against me in the future."

Silently, Valjean shivered in his chains, held motionless and powerless by the chains that bound his muscles. His powerful body was spread out for Javert's perusal. Then the lash came down once more.

A burning stripe of fire was laid across a thigh. At the impact, the lash wrapped around his limb, biting deep into tender skin. It wrung a hoarse cry from Valjean—and then the tip of the whip hit his testicles, leather striking his ballsack, and agony unlike any he had known exploded through him.

Dimly, he could hear himself sobbing. His legs had given out; it was only the chains that held him in place now. Between his legs, his balls throbbed, every pulse sending tendrils of pain through his body. Had he still been able to speak, he would have begged for mercy now; as it was, all he could do was weep as the pain made him tremble.

Javert exhaled a satisfied breath against his shoulder. It was the only warning Valjean received before Javert's hand curled around his balls again, sending a new wave of agony through him. The sensation was almost unbearable. His testes felt tender, throbbing helplessly in Javert's grip, hot and swollen almost to twice their size.

Thoughtfully, Javert's fingers manipulated them in their sack while Valjean sobbed wordlessly.

"Not so fond of them now, are you?" Valjean could almost hear the satisfaction in Javert's voice. "See how better off you'd be without them. In any case, it's not as if you have need for them. No; even if you'd been sent back to Toulon."

Javert was laughing softly to himself as he released Valjean. Dazed, Valjean hung in his chains, his face wet with tears, his balls still throbbing with an agony that overshadowed even that of his bleeding back.

Eventually, he was freed and led to the blanket spread over the pile of straw. He lost consciousness even before Javert had finished chaining him to the wall.

When Jean Valjean woke again, the light had dimmed even more. It had to be late afternoon; somewhere to his right, a lamp had been lit. Blearily, he blinked against the light, then tensed, a groan escaping him when the small movement sent a rush of pain through his body.

He had been caught, and flogged. He remembered that now. Again Valjean shifted, his throat parched. At the motion, new pain throbbed between his legs, his balls so tender that even the slightest drag against the blanket he was resting on made them pulse with red-hot pain. Nevertheless, it was an agony he was grateful for, for it was a reminder that he had not been mutilated yet.

As he panted through the pain, there was a sound somewhere to his right. A moment later, a cup was held to his lips.

“Drink,” Javert said, the word a command though all fury seemed gone from him at last.

Obediently, Valjean sipped, swallowing as much water as Javert would let him have. When he finally let his head sink again in exhaustion, blinking back the tears of pain that had sprung up once more, Javert turned to rummage in a bag. A moment later, there was the sound of water poured into a basin, and the sharp scent of herbs, green and biting.

“I will clean your back,” Javert said. “I would advise you not to move. You are securely chained in any way and would only make matters worse. You don't want these to become infected.”

Valjean hung his head, not bothering to answer. Javert was right; he had no choice in the matter anyway. He could not break free, and any motion sent waves of pain along his raw back. Furthermore, he had seen in Toulon what could become of an infected wound.

Nevertheless, there was cold sweat dripping down down his back, the salt stinging in the wounds as he forced himself to wait docilely for Javert's touch. Cleaning the wounds would hurt, too; he remembered that much. Once more the old resentment spread inside him—did he have to thank his tormentor for his care for wounds that would not exist without the cruelty of Javert's hands in the first place?

A broken moan fled Valjean's throat the first time water dripped onto his back from a rag in Javert's hands. Then Valjean bit his lip, forcing himself to remain silent even though he could not stop the tremors that wracked his body as Javert slowly and methodically cleaned up the blood he himself had spilled.

By the time Javert was finished, Valjean felt cold and dizzy, but he made no move to shake off Javert's hands. Next, Javert began to spread a salve across his back. At first, there was a moment of fiery pain, but then a cool numbness unfurled. It did not completely dull the pain, but it made it easier to rest, and so Valjean's trembling gradually ceased as he submitted to the touch of Javert's hand. 

The first touch on his thighs made him start. Yet although Javert's fingers traveled unimpeded along the tender, vulnerable skin that had known no touch for a very long time, they never strayed from where the bite of the lash had raised painful welts, spreading salve along where the skin had broken.

Valjean closed his eyes. He was trembling once more now, even though the pain had dulled. Somewhere, deeply buried in the back of his mind, a door seemed to have opened. Now that he was helpless, overwhelmed by agony, long-forgotten memories had started to spill back in. For one terrifying moment, he could not remember where he was and who was touching him. Was this truly a stable, or not rather the familiar, stuffy salle of Toulon? Were the hands that touched him so familiarly not the hands of Gilbert, whose embrace had so often offered comfort?

Even though he had not been touched in more than fifteen years, thinking himself long past whatever shame he had left in the bagne along with his name, it seemed that this part of him had only lain dormant. Now it roused once more in his misery, craving comfort, companionship, a reminder that while all the world might hate him, there were others abandoned together with him who could offer solace.

Then Valjean took a deep breath. The dusty reality of the stable filtered in once more, and with it the knowledge that it were Javert's fingers stroking up his thighs. He shuddered in instinctive revulsion of the heat that had started to take hold of him. Shame and loneliness twisted along with the misery in his stomach, and he breathed shallowly as he rested in surrender beneath Javert's hands, praying that Javert had no knowledge of his body's perversion.

At last, with the burning of his back numbed and only the throbbing between his legs to remind him of the past torment, Javert's hands lifted from his skin. There was a long silence. Javert did not move, although Valjean could hear him breathe.

Then Javert touched him once more. This time, his hands closed around his genitals. His balls were pulled from between his thighs, lifted with no regard for the throbbing agony this caused so that Javert could inspect them in the light of the lamp.

Valjean groaned deep in his chest as Javert manipulated the tender globes with the pad of his thumb.

“No harm done to these,” Javert murmured after a moment. “Truly, the size is quite impressive. I wonder, would you still be as bestial without these? That barber must have been right; gelded you would have been less of a liability. Surely I'm to blame for a part of this: there was pride in it, too. Is it not more impressive to be able to say that you subdued a stallion, instead of prodding along a sullen ox? No, I have always been as hard on myself as on any other man: I am to blame in this as well. I thought I could tame the beast and show it off. Well then, I have not once made a mistake without willingly suffering all consequences. It will be a punishment for myself as well to have to take you to a barber and have this business taken care of.”

Valjean could not speak when Javert released him. Carefully, more salve was spread along the welt across his bruised, swollen scrotum, but even the blissful numbness that soon began to follow the touch could not hold back the feeling of sickened dread that had begun to spread within him.

No, Jean Valjean doubted that it would be the same punishment for Javert at all. Was this truly one further burden he would have to carry? Had God not asked him to bear enough? Had he not proved himself changed, year after year; did he truly have to be tested like this?

But if it happened—what choice was there to bear it? Even this could be borne, should he find no other way to escape first. Anything could be borne, he told himself again, thinking of Fantine's suffering and of how much she had sacrificed for her daughter.

He could not abandon the child. He would do what he had to and bear whatever Javert asked of him—but in the end, he would find a way to save the child, and that would be payment enough.

He started when Javert's hand touched his forehead. Javert frowned at him. A moment later, another cup was raised to his lips; this time, he tasted a thin, sour wine. Gratefully, he swallowed it all, and then, exhausted and overcome by despair, he closed his eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.


	22. Chapter 22

Javert allowed Valjean to rest all through the afternoon and the night. In the morning, he inspected his wounds once more. Most of the wounds had scabbed over where the lash had broken the skin. In several places, Valjean had begun to bleed again, the wounds reopened when he had shifted during the night.

Carefully, Javert cleaned Valjean's back once more, and then reapplied the salve. Valjean remained silent and pale, although he ate when Javert brought him a bowl of broth with some bread soaked in it.

Valjean seemed well on his way towards healing—but not well enough to travel, although Javert had no doubt that he could make him walk. Yet what use was there in chancing infection? He had paid off the small town's inspector for a reason; the man might not like having a former convict in his town, but Javert had no intention of wasting his investment of two hundred francs by making Valjean walk all the way back to Montreuil just yet.

One more day of respite he would grant Valjean; then they would travel back to Montreuil, and while Javert would have to bear the commissaire's displeasure for the entire ordeal, everything would soon be returned to right.

And he would not make the mistake of being too lenient with Jean Valjean again.

After the second morning had dawned, Javert made Jean Valjean rise to his feet. The man stood slowly, lines of pain on his face, but he moved quietly and obediently. Once more Javert chained him to a beam, then inspected his back, Valjean shuddering as his fingers followed the raised welts. Where the lash had broken the skin, Valjean's trembling increased and his breathing quickened, but despite the lingering pain, Javert could find no signs of infection. Valjean was healing well, as he had always done.

Javert smoothed more salve over the healing wounds. To drive home a lesson Valjean should have learned years ago, he grabbed hold of his balls as well; they were still visibly bruised, and tender judging by Valjean's barely suppressed groan, but no longer swollen to twice their size.

Valjean would be able to walk—slowly, but walk he would. Perhaps he could even ride, but Javert was not eager to repeat the experiences of their first journey. In any case, there was no reason for such a thing; he had been granted a week of absence, and there was more than enough time to make their way back to Montreuil.

“You are a fool, Jean Valjean,” he muttered under his breath. “A right fool. You could have had it easy, but instead you chose this.”

Another shudder ran through Valjean when he made him turn around. There, on his breast, the brand still stood out, the _J_ barely healed and red amid the hair that covered his chest in a thick carpet. To the right of the lower curve of the letter, only a finger's breadth away, one nipple peaked through the hair, taut and pink.

Slowly, Javert traced the brand with a finger as Valjean trembled helplessly beneath his touch.

“Almost healed,” he said with quiet satisfaction.

Others might look upon his purchase as a luxury, a strange indulgence, a proof that Javert, whom many feared, had finally been overcome by pride—but here, right before him, was the proof that no matter how unusual for him, his decision had been right.

Even now, the sight of this letter branded into Valjean's skin was viscerally pleasing, satisfaction twisting deep within him as his fingers followed the raised line. To imagine a different letter in its place—unthinkable. Jean Valjean had vexed him for too long.

After all, no one else knew Valjean as well as Javert did. No other was prepared to handle this man.

He grabbed hold of Valjean's chin once more, forcing Valjean to meet his eyes.

“I was merciful once, you will remember that,” Javert said, the pad of his thumb pressing warningly against the tender skin beneath Valjean's eye, stroking along his cheekbone in a reminder of where the brand could have been placed as well.

“Would you have run, had I not been merciful? You might never have made it out of Montreuil with my brand on your cheek—and never as far as Rouen. No; I never should have shown mercy.”

Valjean was watching him, breathing heavily although he did not speak.

"In any case, it is too late for regrets now." Javert released Valjean's face.

The dark eyes were following him warily; almost, Javert felt tempted to touch the brand again for the satisfying shudder that ran through Valjean, or the realization in those eyes that the time for rebellion was past.

But there was no time to spare—they had a long way to travel yet for a man who could not be driven too fast. While Javert might not believe in kindness, he did believe in protecting his investment. Furthermore, with the welts of the lashing still red on Valjean's back, there was no need for outright cruelty now.

After they had broken their fast, Valjean was allowed to dress once more, gritting his teeth at the touch of fabric. Then Javert led him out into the inn's small courtyard. At the front, facing the street, there was another stable: large enough to shelter horses and a carriage or two. From there, Javert led out the patient mare who looked well-rested and attentive after the day of leisure, her ears flicking curiously towards Valjean in recognition.

"You will walk," Javert said curtly, fastening a long chain to the shackles around Valjean's wrists, while taking off the chain that had connected his ankles. For a moment, he felt tempted to add that they would rest after two hours had passed, then bit that sentence away, surprised at the sudden notion. There was no need for cruelty, no—but likewise, there was no need to coddle Valjean. Had Valjean not already shown him what would happen should Javert show the smallest sign of softness?

"Make sure not to fall behind," he added after that realization. "I've been too lenient with you, but I won't spare the touch of the lash anymore."

It was early yet. The roads were deserted, except for a slow cart pulled by a donkey and laden with wood that passed them. Valjean managed to keep the pace of the horse; his face was pale, and there was the sheen of sweat on his brow, but he walked slowly and steadily without a word of complaint.

Perhaps this march would at last teach Valjean the lesson that it seemed even the brand had not. In any case, he had weathered worse, and more than deserved the pain of the lashing. Still, as they walked, with only the sound of the mare's hooves and the distant calls of birds to break the silence, Javert began to ponder once more how to deal with what would await him upon his return.

He would sleep in stables alongside Valjean; he was too low on money to afford anything else. Even so, he might be late with the rent, unless he could find a use for Valjean as soon as they returned.

He had been a good tenant for all the years he had lived in Montreuil; surely his landlady would forgive one week's wait. All the same, the mere thought was so distasteful that he grimaced. No, he would rather starve and freeze than be in her debt.

Stables it was, and no more of the cheap wine for Valjean. No, and no stew for Javert either; one could subsist perfectly fine on bread and beans, and in any case, it was a fare Jean Valjean was well used to.

Again Javert turned his head to watch Valjean suspiciously. Valjean's eyes were downcast, his head lowered. A defeated man, by all appearances, with the subdued mien of a beaten dog.

No, Javert then corrected himself. No, even so, even with the wounds of the whip on his back and the chains binding him, Valjean wore the suffering like a mantle, striding past Javert in all his pained glory as though he had sprung from a frieze of martyrs in Saint-Saulve.

Javert scowled at the thought. No, there was nothing noble about this man; Javert more than any other knew the full scope of Valjean's crimes. Still, to drag him back in chains to Montreuil was one thing. The first time, there had been a certain elation to it: he, Javert, had at last put this dangerous criminal in his place. But to return with now with Jean Valjean, after Javert had failed so horribly in his task to guard society from this man! Who would believe that Javert was capable of keeping the beast chained? Valjean had fled once, had broken free from Javert's own bedroom, stealing Javert's coin and clothes. Who now would trust Javert to keep Valjean safely subdued?

And yet, it was very possible that Javert would not stay in Montreuil for that much longer. After Valjean had first been unmasked, his patron had sent him a letter with his congratulations, stating that the case had attracted great interest in Paris.

Javert had never been interested in the pursuit of titles or riches. The prospect of further power delighted him solely for the reason of doing his job more efficiently. Chabouillet had made no promises in that regard, but the letter had left Javert with the distinct impression that his patron was intending to have him recalled to Paris very soon. The thought had pleased Javert at the time: in Paris, he would be able to make a true difference, hunting down the vilest of cut-throats and the most dangerous of thieves. Was the prey he had made it his life's work to hunt not multiplying in the shadows even now? Were the streets of Paris not teeming with these rats of the gutter that were forever gnawing at the pillars of justice and order?

Nevertheless, it had seemed wrong to count on this. These decisions were for his superiors to make, not for Javert, who would continue to fulfill his duty with the utmost dedication.

Javert had never allowed himself to flee from the repercussions of any mistake he might have made. Still, the thought of having to bear mockery for the escape of Valjean rankled him. From a superior, such a thing was correct and had to be borne—but from thieves, from criminals?

He continued to ponder this new predicament he had landed himself in until they came to a spot where the forest came close to the road they were traveling on. Here, he halted the horse and dismounted to allow her to rest and drink her fill. Valjean he allowed to rest as well, although Javert kept a careful eye on the man to make certain Jean Valjean would not see it as a weakness he might exploit for another attempt at escape.

"Sit," Javert said gruffly. "And let me look at your back."

Blood had seeped through the shirt. The amount was too small to be reason for concern, but Javert preferred to take a look at it regardless.

Valjean winced when he carefully pulled off the shirt. Several of the wounds had opened again during their walk, but that was to be expected; most of the bleeding had already stopped, and the reddened skin looked as well as could be expected.

Slowly, Javert allowed his fingers to trace along the whip marks. Valjean flinched, but despite the tremors that ran through his body he held himself perfectly still for Javert's exploring hands. His skin was damp with sweat and a little chilly, but that was well: there was no trace of the heat that heralded infection.

"That looks well enough," Javert said with satisfaction. "Don't move."

Obediently, Valjean remained in place, his skin bared to Javert's eyes, his head bowed. Javert retrieved the small jar of salve from a bag and then began to clean the wounds before he dabbed more salve over the bleeding welts.

Beneath his fingers, Valjean's skin continued to quiver. Valjean's nape was bare; Javert thought of the weight of the iron collar around it, and then of the way Jean Valjean had contrived to rid himself of it.

"Robbing not only me, but being seen in a robbery in Rouen!" Javert muttered. "What was I thinking. He never should have been allowed such freedoms. No; the added expense of the gelding would have been a burden, but here's the proof that it would have been better to have it done with back then. Truly, I only have myself to blame."

Valjean took a deep, shuddering breath, the powerful body suddenly appearing to come to life beneath Javert's hands as Valjean turned. His hands were bound with iron; even so Javert watched him carefully, ready to subdue any sign of rebellion with his cudgel, if he had to.

"I didn't intend to take part in the robbery." Valjean's voice was calm and soft, as though he was aware that Javert was not fool enough to believe such outrageous lies. "I had planned to sound an alarm as soon as those men were inside the building."

Javert could not hold back a small, derisive laugh. "And you didn't intend to take my coat either, did you?" he asked with a sneer. "No, someone else certainly forced you to do it; was it my portress? A most villainous woman indeed for her seventy years!"

Valjean flinched as though Javert had beaten him, even though Javert had not moved.

"I know you won't believe me," Valjean finally said. "I intended to pay you back for what I took. Even so... Certainly you must see, even if you believe the worst of me, that I did no harm?"

"No harm, he says!" Javert scoffed again. "No harm—as though robbery is not already a crime worthy of the galleys! And you a recidivist! The moment you make your escape, you have your hands in another robbery. Who knows what crimes you would have added to your list before long!"

Valjean swallowed. "Inspector Javert," he then began anew, his voice low and urgent, "if you won't admit that in all these years, I have done no harm to any living being, then give me a chance to prove it!"

Javert laughed again, shocked almost to speechlessness by the audacity of this man who sat before him in irons, his back still sore from the lash.

"Prove it? Prove it?" Javert repeated with incredulity. Then, quick as a snake, he struck out, his hand clenching around Valjean's shoulder to pull him around until they were face to face, Javert nearly panting with aggravation. "Prove it, you say... And how would you intend to prove such a thing to me? To me, who has seen you for what you are, who has known all these years—"

Javert broke off, frozen for a moment in terrible shock.

Despite the chains wound around his wrists, Valjean had reached down to press his hands to where Javert now realized with terror he had hardened. As he gaped, dumbfounded, Valjean's hand massaged him, the motion awkward because of the shackles, but the pressure firm and certain.

Valjean did not look at him. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes averted. Even so, his hands did their work with a certain sureness, and for a moment Javert's mind was flooded with images of Valjean pressing himself against the body of another man wearing the red blouse, his hands thrust into yellow trousers to there do their wicked deed—

With a groan that was agony as much as fury, Javert tore himself away, panting as he stared at Valjean with disbelieving eyes. In his trousers, his prick was throbbing just as furiously, the memory of Valjean's hand still searing him like a brand. It took his breath away, the sheer outrage of the act—for a moment he could not believe that Jean Valjean truly would have dared.

But Valjean was sitting in front of him, barechested, the _J_ a cruel red on his breast. His eyes were wide, his mouth drawn into a tight, unhappy line. But Valjean did not look away. This time, those eyes were watching Javert helplessly, dark with some sinister emotion that even now made Javert want to lunge at him, to beat that look from his face—or maybe press him into the ground to teach him not to dare such a thing again.


	23. Chapter 23

“What the deuce...” Javert stared at Valjean from where he sprawled on the ground, teeth bared in a furious grimace. He did not move. For one short moment, he seemed frozen, as if Valjean's touch had been so unexpected that Javert still did not know how to react.

And yet, there at the front of his trousers, his prick was still pushing against the linen. Valjean had felt it push against his palm, too, hot despite the layer of fabric between them.

It had been an act of despair; Valjean had not thought about it, his body acting all on its own to give Javert what he wanted. For as much as Javert might try to deny it, he had been hard. The thought terrified Valjean even now, but had he not done similar things before? Even with Javert, surely this could be borne. He was only a day away from Montfermeil, a day from the money that might still buy him a future—and most importantly, from the child he had wronged.

Fantine's suffering would not be in vain. He would retrieve the child as he had promised; he had money enough that he would be able to find a place for her. A family, and the future her mother had been denied.

If Javert took him back now, Valjean would fail the child. He did not doubt that eventually, he would succeed once more in escaping from Javert's bonds—but how much time might pass? In Toulon, it would take years until an opportunity would present itself once more. Javert's small apartment was no cell; try as Javert might, there would always be an opportunity somewhere. But to wait now when he was so close! And of course, there was the added threat of what Javert might do to him...

Valjean did not doubt that he could learn to live even with such a loss—but the thought of the mutilation filled him with an instinctive horror. Had he not lost enough already? Had he not spent the greater part of his life in chains, damned to that place of darkness that had nearly snuffed out what light remained in his soul? Had he not borne the beatings, the chains, the derision of the guards for so many years that sometimes, it still appeared to him that this was the only reality there was—all that came before and after but a dream from which he might wake all too soon?

Now the new life which he had found in Montreuil had been taken from him as well, and the respect which he had earned by his own hard work had been turned into derision. All of this he had borne without complaint. Could one who had suffered even the brand on his chest be asked to suffer so much more? Was there no end to the torment that would be visited upon him? Javert thought to make him a beast in truth, a docile animal he could lead around on a leash. Surely that was too much; surely no one could ask him to quietly bear such a thing as well!

"I meant no insult," Valjean finally said, forcing himself to stay very still, lest Javert should feel threatened. "You have bought me; I am yours. We both know that. If you want to make use of me in such a way, no one would look askance at you for it. Two hundred francs, monsieur; a great sum, more than what I earned in nineteen years of labor. Why deny yourself the use of what you purchased? As you have said, I am used to such things. It would be only natural."

Javert was still staring at him. His breath was coming quickly, his eyes wide. Was it mere shock? Was it the same, familiar fury that would soon descend upon Valjean once more? Or was it not rather a different, just as volatile passion?

The thought of giving himself to Javert still frightened him, but if it had to happen, was it not better to have it happen like this—to offer rather than have Javert take by force?

Very slowly, Javert straightened. His face was pale, his mouth now drawing into a tight line. "You—you dare to—"

"I apologize, monsieur." Valjean bowed his head. Panic was rushing through him, the sensation familiar. All of his senses were heightened. Even so, he remained in place with his eyes submissively averted, even as Javert slowly rose to his knees and then, striking quick and fast, reached out to grab hold of his shoulders, pulling him so close that Valjean could feel the heat of his breath on his face.

"What devilry is this?" Javert demanded, his voice low. "What do you intend by this? You—you, who stole my own coat, my money, who made a mockery of me! And now you decide to—aah, but I know you, Jean Valjean. You seek to buy something. Is it fear for your balls? Do you think you can sway me by offering yourself to me? You said it yourself: you are mine. All of you is. Why would such an offer matter to me?"

Valjean shuddered, terror holding him in a grip far more powerful than Javert's. His body ached. He felt the searing agony of the brand anew, the low, aching throb of the wounds the whip had left—but even so the touch of Javert's hands on his skin and the expression in Javert's eyes held him transfixed.

For one moment, he imagined what might happen. It would be so easy: Javert pushing him down; Javert ignoring the aches of his body; Javert taking what he had bought. The mere idea of embracing Javert terrified him. Yet if this was what it took to change Javert's mind, what other choice did he have but to offer it? Once before, he had waited too long, and Fantine had died before the child could have been brought to her.

Perhaps, if Javert could be made to see that the child had done no wrong, that there had been no crime committed but that of a cruel society tearing a child from a mother's arms—a society he, Jean Valjean, had at that moment embodied when his superintendent turned Fantine away...

“You want something,” Javert said, his voice so low now that it was little more than a whisper. He was still so close that Valjean could not help but stare into those suspicious eyes that gleamed with a new, terrible determination. “Out with it. Let's hear it now, Jean Valjean.”

Another shiver ran through Valjean, but he did not fight against the hold Javert had on him. “The child,” he spoke at last. “We are close to Montfermeil. If you do not believe me, you can see it with your own eyes when we get there.”

“A child! Ah, that is well, that is very well indeed! And so you, a convict, a slave, a thief and a robber—you seek to do what? Take her home with you? Expect me to pay for the upkeep of a whore's child?” Javert's eyes were narrow now, his words vicious, but neither of them had drawn back. Valjean had surrendered himself submissively to Javert's hold on him, like a rabbit dangling from the teeth of a hound, but even so he did not desist.

“I do not expect that, monsieur,” he said respectfully. “She could be delivered into the hands of the sisters of charity. She will be cared for; she will lead an honest life; surely you of all people will not—”

“Enough!” Javert bared his teeth in a grimace. His eyes were wild as he stared at Valjean. “The child, the child! You keep talking of the child, but I wonder, Jean Valjean, I wonder why it is that you keep bringing up this place and...”

Abruptly, Javert fell silent. Valjean did not dare to move. Javert's eyes were still focused on him, unblinking, lit by new resolve, as though some vengeful demon had revealed a different truth about Jean Valjean to him.

“Monsieur, please.” Pleading had never yet softened Javert's heart, but what other weapon was left to him? And did not Javert enjoy seeing him humbled? “Ask of me what you will, but please, give me that one day to go to Montfermeil and—”

“Why would I ask something of you when by all rights, you're already mine?” Javert was still staring at him, but something in his eyes had shifted.

There was a new hunger there—a hunger Valjean knew well. It was not the hunger that had stared him in the face when he had woken to Javert's hardness against him. This was a different emotion—a policeman's greed, the impatience of the cat that had the mouse almost pinned.

“Very well,” Javert muttered slowly. His hands released their grip on Jean Valjean, who drew back, feeling shaken.

Javert's eyes seemed to watch his every move with satisfaction, as though Valjean's plea had brought Javert a different victory. What could it be? Valjean shuddered to contemplate it. Still, no matter what, in the end it would make little difference. As soon as they made it to Montfermeil, Valjean would find an opportunity to escape with the child. Whatever Javert had planned, it would not happen.

“Very well,” Javert repeated more loudly, that unsettling look of satisfaction still on his face. “We shall turn around and go to Montfermeil. We might make it before evening. And then, Jean Valjean... then we shall see what you are truly made of.”

Still shuddering at that dire pronouncement, Valjean pushed himself to his feet again, telling himself that even if Javert might seek to test his obedience by demanding his full surrender there, it could be borne. It would be borne. In the end, what was one night against the life of a child? There was nothing so pure about his body that it would not be worth such a price.

Valjean did not doubt that Javert took great pleasure in imagining that this was all a lie, a pretext for another attempted crime. But when Javert saw the little girl with his own eyes, might he not be moved—?

A tremor ran through Valjean as he remembered Javert's stony expression when Fantine had pleaded with him. No, to hope for such a thing was to set himself up for disappointment. And yet, did not Javert take great pleasure in seeing the letter of the law followed?

The innkeeper seemed a crook; the letters Fantine had spoken of as well as his response to Valjean's letters had told Valjean all he needed to know. Fantine had been used by this man. Valjean doubted that the child had seen much of the money her mother had suffered so much for. It was obvious that a great injustice had been committed; perhaps even in the eyes of Javert. And in that case, even for a man like Javert who lacked all compassion, might it not seem the right thing to extract the girl from that environment and give her into the care of the sisters instead?

That much, Valjean thought, Javert might be talked into. Right now, Javert did not believe him, but certainly that would change once they reached Montfermeil. And then?

Valjean needed to find a way to escape and make his way into the forest, where he had buried his fortune. If he could manage that, all would be well.

If Javert gave him no chance to flee, then perhaps it would be enough to see the child gone from that place. The sisters would care well for her, and in time, Valjean would find another chance for escape, and another chance to retrieve the money.

Valjean raised his head to look at Javert. They had been walking past the crossroads whence they had come, ignoring the road that led back to Pontoise and taking the road southeast toward Montfermeil instead. Valjean's back was still aching, an ugly, dull throb that for all its steadiness never got easier to bear.

Javert showed no sign of intending to stop again to let him rest, but that was well with Valjean. One could forget the pain if one had a goal to march towards, and what was one whipping against the pain of a small girl abandoned by the world?

Still, every now and then his eyes flickered back towards Javert. A strange anxiety had taken hold of him. Perhaps it had been brought into being by the fury in Javert's eyes, and by the way Javert's body had so visibly responded to his touch.

Javert wanted it. Whatever he might say, he wanted it. What held him back? Valjean could not quite say. Javert had bought him; Valjean had no rights, less even than the galley slaves forced to toil for endless years. There was no law that held Javert back, and it could not be compassion either. Despite Javert's claims, was it not all too probable that one night soon, the man would break and take what he had denied himself?

Javert chose that moment to turn his head, his eyes dark and piercing, a small smile tugging at his lips as though he knew exactly what Valjean had been thinking about.

Hastily, Valjean lowered his gaze towards the road they were traveling on, heat rushing to his face even as dread began to twist in his stomach once more. Almost, he wished that Javert had taken his earlier offer. The thought of Javert making use of him in such a way was terrifying—but at least then it would be over, and he would no longer have to fear.

"Keep up," Javert said companionably. When Valjean hesitantly raised his eyes, he found Javert still smiling, his eyes watching his every move.

Valjean swallowed. His back ached. Sweat was dripping down his skin. Something seemed to clench around his chest so that he could not breathe—and still Javert was watching, with the focused calm of the cat in front of the mousehole.

Did he have it all wrong? Was Javert leading him into a trap instead?

With effort, Valjean pushed the thought away. What trap could that be? Javert already owned him. And if he decided to make use of Valjean tonight—yes, even if he decided to have Valjean gelded like an animal once they arrived in Montfermeil, it was a price he would pay for a chance at freedom and a small child's happiness.

"Monsieur," he finally said when he could not bear Javert's gaze anymore. "Might I have a drink?"

Javert laughed soundlessly but nudged the mare towards the rivulet that flowed beside the road. There, he waited as Valjean fell breathlessly to his knees, biting back another groan.

The water was cool, and he gratefully gulped handfuls of it down as Javert waited. His teeth ached from the coldness, but the water helped to clear his head.

He splashed some water into his face when he was done, then stood. The mare was thrusting her own muzzle into the water now, drinking while Javert still watched him from his saddle. Valjean was keenly aware of the chain locked around his throat, the end held safely in Javert's hand.

They had been here before. And even with the lashing, he was still strong enough to pull the chain from Javert's hand if he wanted. Was Javert aware of that?

One corner of Javert's mouth lifted. “You're holding up well. I wonder why that is. Merely the promise of a tavern tonight? Don't get your hopes up. It's the stables for you now. For both of us, because I'm not letting you out of my sight again,” he added, and Valjean bowed his head, trying to look properly chastised.

"Or is it that child?" Javert continued to study him. "You say she's not yours, but I wonder... But then, we'll see soon enough, won't we? All secrets shall be uncovered in Montfermeil. Let us hope for you that you've been speaking the truth."

Valjean's heart was pounding in his chest. Javert's suddenly improved mood was as terrible in its own right as his earlier fury. 

Javert rarely behaved in such a way, unless he thought to have Valjean properly subdued. He had been in as good a mood when he had forced Valjean to lift the tree and paraded him through the town. Had he planned something similar for Montfermeil?

For a short moment, Valjean could not breathe as a hand seemed to clench around his heart, fear hitting him like the stab of a knife.

What if Javert would proceed to tell everyone in Montfermeil the story of Jean Valjean? Worse—what if he would tell the child that Valjean was a dangerous bagnard, not to be trusted, and that her mother had been a prostitute, dead because of Valjean?

Javert would not do such a thing—he had never been outright cruel to a bystander. Surely he would see that the girl could not be made to suffer for what Javert thought were her mother's crimes. And yet—these things were no lies. They were merely the truth. And had Javert not taken great pleasure so far in using the truth as a scourge upon Valjean as well?

The child would forget, he told himself as he paled beneath Javert's gaze. That was the nature of children. In any case, she need not see him again after they had escaped; with the money recovered, he might find a family for her, or pay for her education. If Cosette found out the truth and hated him for it, certainly that was no more than he deserved.

Regardless, he was shaken as he followed Javert obediently down the road towards Montfermeil, and by the look on Javert's face, he was immensely pleased by the reaction his words had caused.


	24. Chapter 24

As they made their way towards Montfermeil, Jean Valjean kept his silence. They were traveling slowly; Valjean was still in pain and weakened by the whipping, although he kept up the pace, determination in the set of his mouth despite the pallor of his skin. Javert kept watching him, no longer worrying whether Valjean might slip his chains, but instead mulling once more over the strange reaction that had come over Valjean when he spoke of Montfermeil.

It was this suspicious occurrence that had changed Javert's mind. It was not because he believed Valjean's tale, or because he worried about the fate of the prostitute's child—but with all the evidence before him, there were only two explanations for these highly suspicious acts that he could see.

Either Jean Valjean was a liar, and the child was his after all. It would, perhaps, be the most disappointing outcome, even though there should be a certain satisfaction in the proof that this, like so many of Madeleine's saintly acts, had only hidden the poison beneath.

Or otherwise, what drew Valjean toward Montfermeil was not a child, but the hidden fortune, left with the innkeeper, who seemed to Javert to be one of those shady creatures well-acquainted with bagnards. Perhaps the man was no galley slave himself, but either way, surely a man such as this Thénardier would have secrets of his own—secrets that might very well include a certain sum of money.

With Valjean weakened from the whipping, it was doubtful whether they would make it back in time to Montreuil-sur-Mer. Even now Javert felt an acute discomfort at the mere thought of ignoring his superior's orders.

And yet, there was another crime here that he could see: a secret he was close to uncovering. Despite the commissaire's orders, Javert knew that the discovery of Madeleine's stolen riches would be a feat just as great as the initial unmasking of this man. Already his patron had all but promised to recall him to Paris; with the six hundred thousand francs confiscated, surely Chabouillet would find a position in the city for him for certain.

In either case, even if the money should not offer an opportunity to rise in the hierarchy, was it not his duty to uncover a suspected crime? He knew he was on the trail; he could sense that he had come very close to whatever secret Valjean was guarding. And to think that he would return to Montreuil not only with Jean Valjean in his grasp once more, but with the innkeeper arrested and the money confiscated! Six hundred thousand francs; had there ever been a crime of similar magnitude in all of Pas-de-Calais? To abandon the chase so close to the end was madness. The commissaire too would see that Javert had simply done his duty to the state, as soon as the money was recovered.

The late afternoon sun was shining down on them. It was still warm, but a wind had sprung up. Not long ago they had passed St. Denis; now, as they rode towards Bondy, they passed other travelers every now and then, and once had to make way for a carriage racing past them. Past Bondy, where the road towards Gagny ran straight towards the forest, a road-mender was at work, breaking stones beside the road.

At the sound of their approach, the man straightened and slowly turned, his eyes resting just one moment too long on the chain Javert held in his hand, and the man it was connected to. There was a shady look to this worker: his clothes were dusty from his work, his shoes worn, and there was a certain cast to his eyes that made Javert distrustful.

Nevertheless, the man did not move or speak out as they slowly made their way past, although when Javert turned at last, he could see the the man was still staring at Valjean with a most peculiar expression, his hands gripping his pick-axe tightly.

Valjean, in turn, was slowly and obediently walking along behind the mare, his eyes lowered and his shoulders tense. His back had to ache fiercely; still he had made no sound of protest since Javert had led them onto the road towards Montfermeil.

When Javert turned his gaze back onto the road-mender, he saw that the man had returned to his work. For a moment longer, Javert kept watch; then, satisfied, he turned his attention towards the road in front of them once more.

The chains and the look of Jean Valjean were disconcerting. At their arrival, people would stop and stare in the villages they had traveled through. This was no different, Javert told himself—and yet, something about the expression on the man's face had aroused his suspicion. Had it been recognition?

The man had the look of the bagnard, sly and secretive. And had Javert not suspected all along that Valjean had an accomplice in this place? He would do well to stay attentive.

Before them, the forest opened up, stretching from Neuilly in the south all the way north to where several years ago, the castle of Bois-le-Vicomte had been destroyed. To reach Montfermeil, they would have to traverse it.

When Javert turned his head again, he saw that the road behind them was empty. The road-mender whom they had passed not long ago was nowhere to be seen. A frown appeared on Javert's face. Nevertheless, he nudged the mare towards the rivulet that flowed not too far from the path they were traveling on.

“Drink,” he said curtly to Valjean, watching as the man gratefully stumbled to his knees next to the mare.

Valjean moved stiffly as he lowered himself, but he drank deeply. When he at last turned back, his face was pale and glistening with water, although some of the tension between his shoulders had eased.

“It is not much further.” Javert dismounted to drink as well, keeping a careful eye on Valjean all the while despite the chain in his hand. “We will surely make it before sunset. But first, we need to cross the forest.”

Valjean did not reply, and that was well; there was no need to hear the man's opinion. Still, when Javert looked up, he found Valjean's eyes widening. Suspiciously, Javert turned his head and saw that from around a small thicket of thorny bushes, the familiar figure of the road-mender had appeared.

Javert moved to his feet, drawing himself up to his full, imposing length. His hand did not yet move to the gun in his pocket, although he gave the stranger a look that had sent many a criminal trembling before him.

“If you please,” the man said most humbly, “it is just, seeing as I have traveled through this forest today and know the roads well, I might be of service—is monsieur traveling to Montfermeil, perchance?”

“Where else would a man travel in these parts, at this time of day?” Javert said gruffly, not placated at all by the man's trembling hands and his deceptive smile.

“It is just, monsieur,” the man continued, not to be deterred, “I'm Boulatruelle, the road-mender of Montfermeil, as you can see. I could be of some assistance. I know a shortcut that will have you in Montfermeil half an hour early, if that's where you are bringing that man.”

Javert scoffed as Valjean tensed and lowered his head. “Caught your attention, did he?”

The man came a little closer. Javert could smell sour wine on him, but his eyes, though downcast, seemed filled with sudden cunning.

“It's just that there's not a bed to be had for a fellow such as that one, if he's a dangerous man. Pardieu, he has the looks of one.”

Javert showed his teeth in a smile that made the man pale and take a step back. With contempt, Javert thought that it was all too likely that this Boulatruelle too had served his time in the galleys.

“Not to worry,” Javert said, “that man belongs to me, and I intend to keep him on a tight leash. I am Inspector Javert.”

With little surprise, Javert saw the man cringe and smile up at him. Yes; a criminal if he had ever seen one, and one who had something to hide to boot. Had the man intended to rob him? Well, that would not happen now.

“Of course, of course,” the man said eagerly. “You are—of course. Then you know this man's secret?”

Javert's smile widened. Here was the truth of the matter. Was this an old acquaintance from the bagne after all?

At the thought, Javert recalled once more the motion of Valjean's hand, massaging him with firm strokes. His smile turned into a grimace of barely suppressed fury.

“Do I know...? I have always known,” Javert said more forcefully than intended, allowing himself a moment of enjoyment at the way Valjean had paled.

“Of course.” The road-mender craned his head as though he were trying to get a good look at Javert's bags. “But monsieur has not been to the forest yet?”

“Of what interest would that be to you?” Javert asked irritably.

Again the man cringed, but stood his ground. “It is, just,” he began, giving Jean Valjean now an accusing stare, “that man you have there, he must be a right devil. And you say you know his secret, but perhaps monsieur might want help, for you see, I know that he buried the treasure here, and I have a pick-axe as you can see.”

“Treasure?” Javert repeated, a frown appearing on his face. When his gaze fell upon Valjean, he saw that the man's pallor had deepened and he was holding himself very stiffly upright, like a man who had been dealt a mortal blow.

A rush of triumph filled Javert as it all began to make sense. He had been correct in his suspicions. Those six hundred thousand francs had been hidden in Montfermeil all along. So much for that sad tale of the prostitute's child!

“Has monsieur not come to retrieve it?” Boulatruelle asked obsequiously. He seemed no longer quite as fearful; greed appeared to have given him new courage, for he now took a small step forward.

“I do not see what concern of yours that would be,” Javert said, resting his hand near where he kept his gun, and the man took a hasty step back. Javert kept glowering until the man retreated further. “We must be on our way. Good day to you.”

He nudged the mare into a fast walk—faster than anything he had demanded of Valjean so far. Jean Valjean kept pace, although when Javert looked back, he still found him pale and shaken, those eyes that had stared at him with some dark emotion not long ago now suddenly wide with despair.

They must be near. Javert had been right all along. This was where the money was hidden, and Jean Valjean would lead him to it; Javert would make certain of that.

“Come along,” he ordered, nudging the mare again. The forest was close now, and the road-mender had seemed suspicious enough that Javert wanted to put as much distance between them as possible.

Quite likely, Boulatruelle was an accomplice of this Thénardier, in which case Javert would do well to arrive before news of their travel did.

Before them, the forest opened up. Soon the green boughs spreading above them swallowed all sound but those of the mare's hooves and the occasional cries of birds. It would take an hour perhaps to traverse the forest, Javert thought, and once they came out of it, they would have reached Montfermeil.

But before that, given the news this road-mender had brought, he felt that it was time for another talk with Jean Valjean. No wonder that the man had become so desperate, going even so far as to touch Javert! As though he could be bribed with such a thing!

Javert bared his teeth, ignoring the rush of heat at the memory of the sure, firm pressure of Jean Valjean's hand.

For half an hour, they moved on through the forest. Javert kept the pace fast, so that Valjean had to concentrate on following behind. Valjean remained quiet, and while they traveled on, Javert continued to think. Finally, when they reached what seemed to be the halfway point of their journey, the road sloping gently toward where Montfermeil was waiting for them, Javert reined in the mare.

To their left, a large beech-tree grew. Javert lead her towards it and tied her to a branch, so that she could partake of the grass that grew here. Then he turned to Jean Valjean, who was watching him with tired, defeated eyes.

Javert's lips rose into a small smile. Very slowly, he wrapped the chain around his hand, forcing Valjean to come closer and closer. At last, he reached out to grab it where it encircled Valjean's throat like a collar.

The man's eyes were dark with fear. Javert could smell his sweat and the sharp, herbal scent of the salve Javert had used on his back. Javert allowed his smile to widen, watching Valjean all the while.

“Jean Valjean,” Javert said slowly, “it is time you and I had a talk.”

Valjean remained silent, his chest rising and falling rapidly like that of a cornered animal. Javert had expected no different.

“You see,” Javert continued, “I had suspected this all along. Your sad tale of a child—ludicrous. I knew all along that you would have hidden the money here. Why else beg me to return to this place again and again? And when your escape didn't work, you even tried to bribe me. But that time is over now. All your secrets are uncovered. This money belongs to the state, and by God, I will have this out of you now. Where is it hidden?”

Silently, Valjean shook his head. “Monsieur, please,” he said, making no sign to try and break free from the chain, “you are wrong. There is a child, and I have come here because I promised her mother that I would retrieve her from those inn-keepers. If you have heard about Cosette and the letters from the sisters, then surely you know that those innkeepers—”

“Enough of these lies, Jean Valjean.” Javert was so close that he could feel the heat of Valjean's quick, terrified breath on his face. But even now, there was an amused cast to Javert's lips, all the more terrifying for how rare it was.

“But that shouldn't surprise me. You've always been good at lying. You fooled an entire town. You still think you can fool Javert as well. But that road-mender knew you. He knew you had buried your treasure in this forest. Six hundred thousand francs, withdrawn from Laffitte. You will lead me to where it is hidden.”

When Valjean remained silent, Javert made a derisive sound. “No more lies of the child now? And here you were so adamant that you were coming only to save her...”

“Come with me to that inn,” Valjean pleaded, “see for yourself how she is treated. If you have seen the letters, you know how much they were paid for her upkeep and how—”

“I am not here for a child,” Javert said, enjoying the way a shiver ran through Valjean when he tightened his grip on the chain even more. “Are you? Are you truly?”

Valjean swallowed. The chain around his neck was so tight now that he seemed to have difficulty to breathe.

“Yes, monsieur.” His voice was rough from the lack of air, even though he made no motion to fight the chain.

“Then,” Javert said slowly, enjoyment bubbling up inside him once more at this crossroad he had brought the man to, “then surely given the choice between the money and the child, you will choose the child. Is that not right?”

Any moment now, Jean Valjean would be revealed as a liar. The thought brought great pleasure to Javert. He would have the hiding place out of Valjean no matter what it took—but he wanted more. He wanted the complete and utter annihilation of this fortress of goodness Valjean hid within, this false martyr's mantle he drew around himself as though he were still Javert's superior when both laws and morals knew Valjean at the very bottom of society: just one more wolf threatening all that was good and right.

Valjean swallowed heavily. The chain was cutting into his skin, and every breath he drew was labored, but his eyes were still focused on Javert. There was a darkness in his gaze now, some light dimming that, perhaps, had led Valjean so far without complaint despite the wounds on his back.

“If,” Valjean began, his words little more than a rasp now, “if that is the choice you offer—if you swear that you will retrieve the child and give her into the sisters' care—then in turn I will lead you to the money.”


	25. Chapter 25

There was a part of the forest that stretched near Montfermeil which was called the Blaru-bottom in the area. Jean Valjean knew this place well, even though he had never heard its name spoken. Here it was that he had not long ago buried the six hundred thousand francs he had withdrawn from Laffitte, shortly before Javert had captured him on his return to Paris as he was about to enter a carriage.

Now, Valjean was once more walking towards this clearing—but this time he was not alone. There was a chain around his neck, and Javert held it securely in his hand as he followed behind. Even now as he walked, his mind a turmoil of fear and despair, Valjean considered the options for flight that remained to him. He was stronger than Javert, but Javert had a gun. Still, the money would distract Javert, and all one needed in such a moment was a second of inattention.

And yet, could he overpower Javert without harming him? It would be very easy: one hit to his head, and with Javert unconscious, Valjean could take the money, the horse and the gun and be on his way before Javert regained consciousness and made his way to Montfermeil.

A deep distaste twisted in Valjean's stomach at the thought. Had he not reason enough to use violence against this man? He did not seek to harm Javert; all he needed was a moment to make his escape. Still, the thought was too unsettling; he knew his strength, and he knew Javert's tenacity. It could not be chanced.

Perhaps some other opening would come. If he could steal Javert's gun while Javert was distracted, he might be able to keep him in check that way, and then make his escape. It would gain him no more than an hour before Javert would be after him together with what men he found in Montfermeil, but it might suffice to get away.

But what would become of Cosette? Had he not already given too much away? Would not Javert know to keep watch on the inn in Montfermeil for his return? He had promised Fantine he would retrieve the child. But surely God could not demand of him to give up his fortune in return for her safety?

Valjean raised his eyes toward heaven, but there was no answer for his plight. The sky was beginning to darken; soon dusk would arrive.

It seemed to him that the chest buried in the earth contained not only the fortune; it was his soul that had been buried within, and all the hope for a life like that of any other man. The chest held his potential for goodness: money honestly earned which he had used for hospital beds, schoolmasters, assuaging the needs of the poorest of the town as best as he could. What use would it be to give this up when in his hands, it could do more good? In the hands of the state, it would vanish, and not a single sou would reappear to lighten the burden of those most in need of it.

And yet, would he not damn his soul to even deeper darkness were he to abandon the child now, when he had come so close?

Valjean took a deep breath. To his right, a narrow footpath led towards the clearing where an old chestnut-tree grew.

“You will keep your promise?” he asked quietly. Javert was not a man to make deals with a criminal; even so, neither was he a man who would lie. Valjean knew that much at least. Javert would not have promised such a thing to trick him. Even so, something inside Valjean needed the reassurance, now that he was about to cast away his future for the hope of a distant, greater glory.

“I said so, didn't I?” Javert sounded annoyed to be questioned. “I don't care about that prostitute, but from what the sisters have revealed of her correspondence, she asked for the child to be returned and paid off all debts. That inn-keeper has no case to hold on to her. If the sisters take care of the brat instead, it is no worry of mine, and indeed, the law would be on your side in this case for once, Jean Valjean.”

A small smile played about Javert's lips now. Valjean met his gaze, his shoulders aching beneath the heavy burden he was asked to bear. His back still hurt from the lashing he had received, but when he finally lowered his head and turned away from the road to lead Javert onto the small path towards the clearing, the pain of every step he took outweighed even the agony of the whip.

He was surrendering hope to Javert. He had been prepared to surrender his body—but not once in the past weeks had he thought that instead, this was what God would ask of him.

Still, escape was not out of the question. In the coming months, Javert's attention would eventually slip. An opportunity would offer itself, and Valjean would be free once more.

How much harder it would be, with the collar and the brand, and no money to buy himself safety—but it could be done. He was old now, but he had done it before; doubtlessly it could be done again. To start anew from nothing was twice as painful for a man of his age, but if it was demanded of him, he would mend roads himself, or carry heavy burdens. As long as he was free, it would be enough to have some bread to eat each day.

“It is here,” he said quietly when before them, the Blaru-bottom opened. There, in the distance, stood the familiar chestnut-tree with its sheet of zinc. The stones next to it were undisturbed.

Valjean's shoulders fell as the burden that seemed to weigh him down grew even heavier, but even so he no longer thought to rebel against where a cruel fate had led him. In defeat, he turned away from the path while Javert watched him with suspicious eyes. Valjean offered no explanation, and when he drew a pick-axe out of a bush, Javert merely nodded, unsurprised.

Together, they made their way into the clearing towards the chestnut-tree. Valjean did not look at Javert as he stepped behind the pile of stones. Then he began to dig.

The pain of his back was forgotten; the pain of having to give up hope to Javert—at least for the moment—was far greater than the stripes of the lash on his back. Still, he told himself as he worked silently and quickly, he had to place his trust in God. If this was what was asked of him in return for the life of a child, it was not so terrible a deal. After all, had he not once stolen from a child? Was it not just that God should indeed bring him to this crossroad once more?

By the time there was a deep hole in the ground, the chest which he had hidden in the earth mere weeks ago uncovered at last, he had begun to sweat, his back stinging. Valjean hunched his shoulders as he looked down at the unassuming box. It held six hundred thousand francs, a fortune that could have saved many lives.

And yet, what worth did it have if Valjean failed to save even one?

Determined, Valjean knelt by the hole and then heaved the box out of its hiding place. He could feel Javert's eyes on him; the back of his neck stung from the weight of Javert's gaze. For a moment, he trembled as he thought of the future which he was about to give away; then, with his head still lowered, he turned, surrendering to the sacrifice God had asked of him, and opened the box.

Javert drew in an audible breath at the banknotes stashed inside.

“So it's true,” he murmured, sounding bewildered.

Valjean did not know what to say and so remained motionless for a moment, his fingers pale as they gripped the box. Then he looked up, and found that Javert was watching him with deep confusion on his face.

“Six hundred thousand francs?” Javert asked. “All that you have withdrawn from Laffitte?”

Valjean nodded. “It was earned honestly,” he said, although he knew it would make no difference to Javert, and even less difference to whatever judge would find a reason to take control of the money. “You have seen the factory. You know there was no crime involved. It was honest work.”

“You will leave that decision to men more suited to it,” Javert snapped as if by habit, but there was no real heat in his voice, and he still seemed distracted by the sight of what was before him.

“But what does it mean,” Javert muttered once again to himself. “Why would he—”

“The deuce! I was right all along,” a voice interrupted.

It was the road-mender who had disturbed them earlier, and who must have used their distracted state to come closer, hiding behind the trees while Valjean was at work.

He had seemed familiar to Valjean, his suspicion confirmed when the man gave them his name. Boulatruelle too had been a galley-slave once. For four summers, Valjean had occasionally caught sight of him in the courtyard at the bagne of Toulon, until the man was released.

This connection to his past was no longer cause for fear, for Javert knew Valjean's true identity well enough. Even the fact that Boulatruelle must have observed him in the forest the first time Valjean came here was no longer a danger, since the money had been uncovered and would be confiscated first by Javert, then the state.

Nevertheless, it set Valjean on edge to have the man trail them here. What could he want?

“This is none of your business,” Javert snapped, straightening now in the saddle. “Run along!”

Instead, the road-mender took a step forward. His face was pale as he looked at the hole Valjean had dug.

“My treasure,” Boulatruelle murmured, and then his gaze fell on the open coffer in Valjean's hands once more.

“I recognize you know. Jean-le-Cric they called you; yes, I know you,” Boulatruelle said, his eyes feverish with intent as he took another step forward. “I thought you were the devil. You must have been, to lead me astray like this. I followed you through the forest, I almost had you, and then you were gone! Week after week I've searched for the treasure, but not a trace to be found. And you think you can just return like this, to dig here in the Blaru-Bottom and take away Boulatruelle's treasure? You are the devil indeed.”

Valjean leaned backward, allowing the box to fall shut again. The ramblings of the man made little sense, but there was a wildness in his eyes which Valjean knew well. Gently, he said, “You might remember me from Toulon, but there is nothing I can do for you. This belongs to Inspector Javert now. I cannot help you.”

“Help me?” Boulatruelle said, his eyes wide. He laughed, a wild sound escaping from deep in his chest. In the light of the sinking sun, his teeth gleamed as his lips parted, his laugh the snarl of a maddened wolf. “I might have helped _you_. I might have. Are we not brothers, Jean-le-Cric? Should you not have come to Boulatruelle? You should have spoken of the galleys to me, promised me half of what is in that box, and we would have buried and guarded it together. That is how it goes in these parts. But you ran from me, you vanish in the shadows as if you are the devil himself, and then you come back with that police spy and try to steal my treasure from beneath my very eyes?”

“Enough of this nonsense,” Javert barked. Valjean could see his hand reach for his pocket where he kept the gun. “You will leave now and not disturb us again. And I shall stop at the station-house in Montfermeil to make inquiries about you.”

Boulatruelle's grin began to tremble, as though a sudden fear caught up with him. But then his gaze fell once more upon the box cradled in Valjean's hands, and a sudden, petulant fury burst forth instead.

“I do not like your friend very much,” he cried out, his own hand sliding towards his pocket so quickly that Valjean could not react. “Let's get rid of him, eh, Jean, and then talk about this treasure here, as it's custom for old friends!”

Valjean's eyes widened when Javert pulled the gun free. The patient mare was lowering her ears nervously, shifting from leg to leg at the sudden outburst of noise. Then, as swift as the wolf striking out for its prey, Boulatruelle pulled a knife free and lunged forward.

He would have buried it in Javert's ribs, had the mare not fearfully reared and twisted away from the sudden attack. Instead, the blade dealt Javert's thigh a glancing blow, then fell from Boulatruelle's hands when Javert succeeded in drawing his gun free.

Boulatruelle cried out as the weapon went off. He staggered back, blood dripping down his arm. At the same moment, the mare squealed in terror, eyes rolling and ears pointed back as she jumped forward in fear, and Javert slid from her back as Boulatruelle staggered back. Terrified, the horse raced forward towards the other side of the clearing while Boulatruelle groaned and clutched his arm as he, too, turned and ran.

A second later, Valjean was by Javert's side, the box still clutched in his arms. Even after the shock of the attack and the fall, Javert had immediately twisted around, his hands finding the gun. He rolled around, clutching it tightly in his hand as if he anticipated Boulatruelle to strike again—but the road-mender had made it to the safety of a thicket of brambles now, vanishing into the thorny bushes to find his escape in the forest behind.

“You are hurt,” Valjean said, reaching out thoughtlessly to rest his hand on Javert's thigh. “I saw him cut you.”

Javert stiffened, an expression of utter surprise on his face, as if he had all but forgotten that Valjean was present—or as if it was impossible to believe that Valjean would not have taken the money and run, abandoning Javert to bleed to death.

“It is nothing,” Javert said grimly, his eyes falling onto the chain dangling from Valjean's throat. At the attack, he had let go of it.

“Just a shallow cut.” Javert reached out—but instead of grasping the chain once more, his fingers clenched around the knife Boulatruelle had let fall. He raised it up into the waning sunlight.

“I knew it as soon as I saw him,” he muttered to himself. “A bagnard, and I doubt that it is the first time he attacked a traveler. How many reports of people vanished on the roads do they have in Montfermeil, I wonder? I have to pay the station-house a visit, and—”

Javert stiffened. Pain had made him pale—or so Valjean had thought. But he could see now that Javert had spoken the truth, the wound was not deep. The knife had slashed along the inside of Javert's thigh, the cut no longer than a finger. It was bleeding, but not so heavily that there was cause for worry.

Why then was Javert's brow wet with sweat, his fingers trembling as he held the knife?

His heart sinking, Valjean took hold of the knife. It did not take much effort to take it from Javert, who looked at him from wild, angry eyes. When Valjean tilted the blade, he saw that there was a thin film on it, as though Boulatruelle had kept it coated with oil.

Or coated with poison, to support his habit of highway robbery.

Valjean drew his finger along the blade, then sniffed at it. The scent was pungent and stung in his nose.

“Poison,” he said quietly. Once, a man he knew had smuggled a similar poison into the bagne; and once, when he had sought to buy new clothes after an escape, a man had tried to sell him some as well.

Javert was staring at him, his chest rapidly rising and falling. Sweat was beading on his brow. If Valjean were to run now, Javert would not be able to stop him.

“It acts quickly.” Suddenly determined, Valjean set the box with the money aside, reaching out for Javert once more with hands that trembled despite his efforts. “ You have to trust me now. There is no time left to lose.”


	26. Chapter 26

It was becoming difficult to breathe. A band of iron seemed to tighten around his chest. At the same time, heat was spreading through his body, his veins filled with something thick and sluggish and hot that made him sweat just from the effort it suddenly took to keep himself upright.

Javert stared at Jean Valjean, taking in the way Valjean met his gaze. Something was different—there was a frankness in his gaze, as though the earlier submission had just been an act that had suddenly fallen away, just as Javert had always suspected. And beneath that mask, Jean Valjean had thought all along that he was free, of equal worth as any upstanding citizen, even though his many crimes had forfeited those rights long ago.

“Poison,” Javert said—or rather tried to say. The word that escaped his throat was rough, his tongue suddenly too heavy, as though it had turned to stone in his mouth. He tried to focus on the blade in Valjean's hand.

Poison. Had Valjean poisoned him...?

No, he then thought, dimly remembering the road-mender lunging at him from behind the tree. It had been Boulatruelle—yes, he had known the man was a criminal, right from the first moment he saw him.

There was a heartbeat of satisfaction at that thought. Then Valjean's hands reached out for his trousers. A moment later, Javert found himself lowered into the grass growing beneath the chestnut-tree. Blearily, Javert blinked at the sheet of zinc that encircled the trunk. It reflected the light of the setting sun in bursts of yellow, orange and red.

Sudden shock made him twist his head with his last remaining strength when he felt hands—familiar hands—unbuttoning his trousers. A moment later, they were pulled down.

Everything was tinted by the waning light. A veil of red seemed to have been drawn before Javert's eyes as he breathlessly watched. He was not quite certain whether he was caught in a dream or a vision of Hell when Jean Valjean, without hesitating, leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Javert's skin.

A wave of heat rushed through Javert with enough force to make him groan feebly. Everything was hazy and too warm—but there, against his aching thigh, he could feel Valjean's lips moving.

“What are you doing?” he croaked in disbelief.

Hadn't he rejected Valjean's offer before? He would not be bribed—he would not, even though his flesh began to stir now, hardening a finger's breadth from Valjean's cheek.

Suddenly a spike of pain shot through Javert. It felt as if a knife had been jabbed into him again. Valjean's mouth was pulling at him, and tendrils of searing pain pierced Javert's spine.

A second later, Valjean straightened and turned to the side, only to spit out a mouthful of blood. Then, despite the way Javert's flesh had hardened, he bent over Javert's lap again without faltering, pressing his lips to the wound to suck on it again.

Javert groaned. His fingers twitched impotently, trying to reach out although he had no strength left to even lift them. He was panting for breath now, his chest heaving as Valjean sucked the heat from him with soft lips, only to spit into the grass again a heartbeat later.

“I'm sorry,” Valjean said at last when he raised his head, his lips swollen and obscenely red.

In fascination, Javert stared at the way blood had reddened his mouth, his heart thudding with irregular little jolts as he thought of that mouth in his lap once more.

“The poison acts fast. It will rot your flesh—there's only one way to keep infection from spreading.”

As Javert struggled to breathe, Valjean turned away from him to softly call out for the horse.

It was hard to think. Javert could not move, the poison—if it truly was poison—turning the blood in his veins to lead, his limbs as heavy as stone.

Was it truly poison, or had Valjean finally decided to take his revenge?

No, Javert thought dizzily, no, the road-mender had attacked and stabbed him. Valjean could have helped Boulatruelle kill Javert—but he had not.

There were sounds nearby. He heard Valjean speak gentle, coaxing words, and still Javert could not stop remembering that mouth move against his skin. Then there was a thud and some rustling. When Javert used what strength was left to him to turn his head, it took him a long moment to focus enough to make out what was happening.

Valjean had lured the skittish mare back and tied her to a branch. He had pulled Javert's bag from her back, and now... now Valjean was using his tinderbox to quickly light a small fire.

It was getting dark. If Valjean had any sense, he would try and make for Montfermeil, with or without Javert. Was he planning on settling here for the night instead? He had never taken Valjean for reckless. The road-mender might return any moment with friends.

Unless this had all been a ploy after all...

At last Valjean turned his head. Javert could not read the expression in his eyes, but he noted that Valjean had pulled off the chain that had encircled his neck. Javert's lips twitched bitterly at the sight.

It was exactly as he had always suspected.

“This will hurt,” Valjean said quietly as he met Javert's eyes.

Again Javert blinked against the tiredness that was threatening to pull him under. His body was aching, a sharp pain radiating to his chest from the wound at his thigh. How much time was left?

His fingers twitched, but he could not even remember what had happened to his gun. Neither could he lift his hand.

Again he blinked. Against the backdrop of the encroaching darkness, Valjean was kneeling by his side, cloaked in red and yellow flames as though the gates of Hell had opened and he had strode right out of it. In his hand, Valjean held a blade—it took Javert a moment to recognize it. It was his own knife, which Valjean must have taken from his bag.

Now it glowed a sinister red, the metal white-hot as Valjean held it into the flames he had conjured.

Javert's lips parted and he laughed, although no sound would come forward.

“You devil,” he gasped when Valjean at last moved towards him. “I knew you wanted revenge. How fitting.”

“I don't seek revenge. Neither does it please me to see you suffer,” Valjean said softly as he bent over Javert.

Despite the false piety of his words, his hair still shone with the flames of Hell, lit in shades of red and orange against the blackness that swallowed everything around him.

Javert continued to laugh in scorn as the throbbing pain seemed to sucked his life force out of him. 

“You are the devil himself, Jean Valjean,” he muttered, using what was left of his strength to give the man standing above him a defiant grin.

Briefly Jean Valjean closed his eyes, his lips moving as though he was speaking silently. Then, they opened once more, and the calm determination within them would have frightened Javert, if he had not already surrendered to the strange end which fate had decreed for him.

Valjean leaned over him. One strong arm was braced against him, muscles straining against Javert's skin as Valjean pushed him into the ground, even though Javert was already too weak to lift a single finger in defense.

"I'm sorry," Valjean said once more, "although I know you won't believe it. And even though I long to be free, I won't take freedom if it's in exchange for another man's life."

Javert laughed in response. It was a pitiful, hoarse sound that could barely convey the rage that had gathered in his chest, a ball of impotent fury at his weakness, and of disdain that even here, at the end, when it no longer mattered, Valjean still chose the lie to hide his dishonest ways.

Then the glowing knife came down, and when it touched the wound, Javert knew an agony unlike any thing he had felt before.

Valjean's arm held him securely pinned, but despite his weakness, Javert's back arched in torment. A cry escape his parched throat as heat consumed him, fire licking at his skin until he felt himself burned alive, pierced to the core by the red-hot metal Valjean pressed mercilessly to his skin.

Then darkness took him.

He was lost, hanging transfixed in a vast darkness, aware only of the all-consuming pain that relentlessly ate away at him like the flames of a pyre. Fire ravaged him from inside his veins, as though his blood had turned to molten lead. Every heartbeat pumped more poison through his body until it seemed to Javert that he had already died, all that was left of his body a hollow husk filled by an abyss of torment and fire.

Once or twice, he woke from this vision of Hell to find himself cradled in strong arms. A swaying motion rocked him that felt vaguely familiar.

Someone spoke to him then. The voice was familiar, too. Old shame and hatred rose up as he thought of the father he had thought long since gone from both the world and his memory. But the arms around him did not let go, and as time passed, the swaying motion and the warm hide shifting against his legs made him realize at last that he was on a horse.

_Valjean,_ he tried to say, although the sound that escaped was only a moan.

The man sitting behind him stiffened. Had he thought him dead?

No, Javert thought dimly, Valjean could have killed him earlier, had he wanted that...

“Not much further.” Valjean's voice was calm, as though he could not feel the flames that ravaged Javert. “In Montfermeil we'll find a doctor.”

As usual, Valjean's words made no sense. Instead of a doctor, surely Valjean would find a quiet place to leave him behind. Perhaps that was why Valjean had pretended to save him. Was that not how it had gone in Montélimar? Here, too, Valjean would pretend to be his savior, and the people of the town would praise him while Javert was shut in a room to slowly die from the poison in his blood.

What a devious plan this was. The pious man, the philanthropist, once more pretending to save his tormentor so that in turn, the king would pardon him...

Fury filled Javert at the thought of Valjean striding among respectable men with the _J_ branded onto his breast. No, it was too late for such pretense. Should Valjean kill him here, the sign of what he was would still remain burned into his skin. Even if he deceived the entire country, Javert's truth would remain with him until the day they buried him and his soul joined Javert in Hell.

They would burn together there, Valjean for his many lies, and Javert—Javert would burn in the never-ending heat that still consumed him, flames licking at his insides as though his bones were tinder, tendrils of blazing torment twisting through his chest with every beat of his heart.

And still, even now as he lay dying from the poison, he could feel the softness of Valjean's lips against his thigh. He remembered that mouth wet and red as Valjean had looked up at him with dark eyes, and Javert shuddered in his arms with helpless torment.

The poison was still in his blood, Javert told himself, clinging to that as the one truth in a world that had ceased to make sense. It was the poison that tormented him so.

Every step of the mare sent new agony through him. Enough of the poison must have remained in his blood that it was very difficult to think. Even now, darkness beckoned, but he clung to consciousness with all his strength.

He was in Jean Valjean's power now. The thought should be terrifying, but even that danger paled against the scalding heat that sapped his ability to think. Had he been given a choice, he would gladly have chosen to be Valjean's prisoner over the humiliating weakness the poison had brought him. It was one thing to end his life with his senses intact, defiantly meeting the eyes of the convict Jean Valjean. But to die of this fire consuming his brain, his body feeble and his mind lost in fever dreams...

He must have made a sound again, for Valjean shifted. He spoke something; Javert could not make out the words, but there was no mockery in them.

Perhaps that made them even more bitter. Had he been given a choice, Javert thought dimly as his thoughts slipped away once more, he would have chosen death by the convict's hand rather than this...

An interminable amount of time later, Javert woke from his dreams of hell fire and snakes that pierced his flesh with dripping fangs. Instead of the flames that had consumed him, his bones were now aching with cold, his limbs shaking. He was resting on something soft. Distantly, he could hear a voice talking.

Was that Jean Valjean? Had the devil carried him straight into Hell?

He tried to open his eyes, but it felt as though a heavy weight rested on him. When he finally managed to raise his lids a small amount, he saw shadows bent over him, devils with skin of gray and hair of flame. At the terrible sight, a groan escaped him. Then he felt chains tying him down to his bed of torment as burning hands touched where the devil had bitten him, bringing new agony.

Weakly, he struggled, until he felt a hand grip his shoulder and push him into the bed. Using his last strength to force his eyes to open, he suddenly found himself face to face with Jean Valjean, familiar eyes shining down at him from the face of the devil.

“Hold still,” the devil said, “let the doctor do his work,” and all Javert could offer in return was an agonized laugh of sick triumph at the truth that was revealed here. For he knew Jean Valjean, and now they were both in Hell where they belonged.


	27. Chapter 27

In the span of just three days, Jean Valjean had been lashed until his back bled, walked all day leashed beside a horse, and unearthed a chest filled with money. Every muscle of his body was aching with bone-deep exhaustion, but even so he had lifted Javert onto the back of the mare and then climbed on behind him to hold him upright as the horse made its way to Montfermeil.

They had not been far from the town. Even so, worry and despair ate away at him for the duration of their travel, for Javert was no longer conscious, and Valjean felt a deep, weary misery at the thought that he was now forced to save his tormentor. Only two days ago, Javert had stood behind him and raised the lash. Only two days ago, Javert had threatened mutilation once more, as though Valjean was just a beast to be gelded for docility.

And now Javert rested heavy in his arms, his skin clammy with sweat as what remained of the poison coursed through his blood.

Surely there had been no imperative to suck the poison from his wound and cauterize it before the flesh could mortify? He could have taken Javert and brought him to the doctor in Montfermeil straight-away. Javert would not have made it, but Valjean would have a clean conscience, for he would have helped as much as could be demanded of someone in his situation.

And yet, as much as he hated the thought of saving the man who had bought him like one might buy livestock at an auction, even now there was a part of him that thought of the Bishop's eyes on him. With great resentment he tightened his hold on Javert as he forced the tired mare to hasten through the dark streets of Montfermeil.

There was a sign that announced the public house, a board nailed against the wall above the door. It showed a picture of a man carrying another in the uniform of a general on his back. Valjean had no eyes for it as he slid from the back of the mare. Hurriedly, he gathering Javert in his arms despite the voice that told him even now that surely all that could be asked of a man was to leave his tormentor here in the care of a doctor, taking the freedom God had offered him at last.

His face grave, he pushed through the door. Although it was dark now, the inn was not yet full; in one corner, a group of men sat; in another, a couple that might have been traveling and stopped for the night. When Valjean stepped inside with his burden in his arms, the woman gasped; a moment later, the innkeeper came hastening forward.

“A room,” Valjean demanded before he could speak. “And send for the doctor immediately. We were attacked by a brigand on the road.”

“The villain!” Thénardier cried with surprised outrage. “On our roads? The deuce, that is abominable! But you must have our best room, monsieur; I would not take advantage of a man in your situation—”

“The doctor,” Valjean reminded, standing motionless as now a formidable woman burst forward from the kitchen.

“Cosette!” she called with the bellow of the convict-guard, “you wicked beast, stop hiding and run for the doctor straight away!”

A heartbeat later, a tiny figure was melting out of the shadows from beneath a table in the corner. Her garb was gray and dirty, her skin as ashen as the dust that had settled on the threadbare fabric. Terrified, she looked around with the quick, abrupt movements of a mouse that saw itself cornered on all sides.

At last, as though by some instinct she had sensed that the stranger offered less danger than the mistress whose strong arm was well-used to wielding the cat-o'-nine-tails that hung in the chimney-corner, she ran past Valjean, only to stop once she had reached the relative safety of the door.

“What am I to say, madame?” she inquired timidly. “The doctor will want money to come out.”

“You little monster,” the woman now cried. “Surely monsieur is good for his money; surely monsieur can pay—your companion has the look of a man of means, monsieur; yes, you will pay for our best room and the doctor, is that not right?”

“That is right, madame,” Valjean said quietly.

Still terrified, the child skittered away, and Valjean became aware once more of the heavy burden in his arms. His limbs ached after the exertion of the day, his shirt sticky with sweat and Javert's blood, but he kept his silence. As he followed the innkeeper up the stairs, he gave no sign of the welts covering his back, which still causied pain to shoot through him at every movement.

The room—the best the inn had to offer, Thénardier reassured him, free just by chance although it was the finest they had to offer, and all other rooms were taken—boasted of one large bed and a woman’s head-dress made of silver wire and orange flowers displayed above the bed. There was a small window, and although the room had obviously seen better days, the linen seemed reasonably clean.

Carefully, Valjean set Javert down on the bed, then turned towards Thénardier who had watched with an expression of sympathy on his face.

“Clean linen and water, please, monsieur,” Valjean said.

At the sound of his voice, Thénardier gave a start, as though he had been overwhelmed by the pitiful plight of the traveler before him. As Valjean watched, Thénardier made a great show of hastening back down the stairs into the taproom, shouting for his wife and making a great pandemonium in front of the guests, exhibiting in short more in word and gesture than in forthcoming help all the symptoms of a tender soul overwhelmed by the tragedy that had befallen his guests on the road.

Nevertheless, scant minutes later the Thénardier woman reappeared, supplying him with clean, hot water and linens. When the doctor at last arrived several minutes later, a gray-haired man short of breath who stared at Javert with narrowed eyes and quoted his price before deigning to take a look at the wound, Valjean had already managed to strip and clean Javert.

“Poison, you say?” The doctor shook his head, first peering at Javert's eyes and squeezing his hand, then inspecting the cauterized spot where Valjean had pressed the heated iron into the skin.

“I have seen a man die of it before,” Valjean offered quietly. “I sucked out the poison—”

“And then burned what remained, yes indeed, good thinking, monsieur. But will it be enough?”

Troubled, the doctor once more lifted Javert's lids to peer at his eyes until Javert at last gave a start. He seemed too weak to do himself harm; still, Valjean reached out and carefully pushed him down into the bed while the doctor examined him.

“He seems strong enough. He might just make it,” the doctor muttered.

Valjean, who sat by the side of the bed, one hand resting heavily on Javert's shoulder to keep him down should he grow agitated again, patiently sat through the man's examinations. At last, they were left with an ointment for the wound, a tincture for the fever that was still ravaging Javert, and some laudanum if it was needed.

“If he survives the night, then I am of good hope he will make it through,” the doctor said gravely before he took his leave.

Then Jean Valjean found himself alone with Javert once more.

Exhaustion weighed heavily on his back. Now, at last, he could surrender to the ache and the weariness. His shoulders drooped. He had barely enough strength left to strip out of his shirt. One of the lash marks had opened again at the exertion; he ignored the pain as he pulled the fabric away from the wound.

Quietly, he washed, his hands trembling with tiredness. When he was done, he inspected Javert again. He was still in the grip of a fever: his skin was clammy and hot, and he shivered when Valjean wiped the sweat from his brow. But he seemed calmer now. It was as good a sign as could be hoped for, Valjean supposed—and of course, how much easier it would all be should God decide to take Javert's life this night, and restore Valjean’s freedom with the same hand!

Valjean was hungry, but exhaustion made the mere thought of leaving the room seem unbearable. Had he been stronger, he might have asked for a straw mattress to be brought in and placed in a corner; now, with his legs nearly too weak to carry him, he walked towards the bed and slipped beneath the covers, watching Javert warily lest this, too, should be taken as an attack.

But Javert was still asleep, and the bed was wide enough to sleep comfortably. Furthermore, should Javert's condition worsen in the night, he would know.

He could not say why that thought was reassuring. Should Javert die, all of his problems would be solved. Surely it would be just if the man who had taken his freedom would at last restore it by his death—especially when Valjean himself was innocent, and had done everything possible to save him?

And yet, as much as the wounds on his back still ached and his neck still carried the memory of the collar’s weight, the thought of Javert succumbing to the poison right here, in bed with him, was nearly as frightful as the thought of driving a dagger into his heart himself. Valjean could not say why; only even now, he thought that there was someone watching, and that for some reason, Javert's fate had ceased to be entirely his own. For better or for worse, God had chained them together, and even though Valjean wanted nothing more than to break free of those chains, to do so for the price of Javert's life was not a bargain one could make with God's inexorable gaze on him.

The next morning, Javert was still in the clutches of a fever. Valjean woke early; the curtains were drawn, and it was still dark in the room. For a long moment, he did not know where he was, but his weary, still sleep-adled mind was comforted by the familiar sensation of a hard body against his own, sharing body heat and what little affection there was to be had in the bagne. 

For four years, Boucard had been chained to him. For more than a thousand nights, Valjean had fallen asleep thus, and had woken just the same, pressed against Boucard's s warm body, surrounded by darkness and the breathing and moans of a hundred men trapped with him in the darkness of the salle.

Then, slowly, Valjean became aware of the strange absence of chains on his leg and the unfamiliar softness of a bed beneath him instead of wooden planks.

When he turned his head, he could make out Javert's face in the gloom of their small room. Even as Valjean watched, a shudder ran through Javert; he did not open his eyes, but his lips moved as though he wanted to speak. Hesitantly, Valjean reached out and placed his hand on his forehead. The skin was damp and hot; Javert still had a fever.

Valjean frowned. For a long moment, he remained like that, his hand on Javert's brow as he watched him with puzzlement. What divine hand had brought them together like this? Had fate given Valjean’s tormentor into his hand so that he could take revenge? Was this temptation, to see how far from the path of goodness he could stray?

Or was it not simply a coincidence, with no greater meaning, and no possible repercussions should Javert die of the poison here, even though Valjean had done far more than what any other man in his situation would have done?

Resentment bloomed at the thought. What Heaven would choose to torment him with such a choice after the suffering Valjean had already born without complaint? Surely he had done enough; surely it would already be more than any other would have done, to leave Javert here in the care of the doctor, with a thousand franc note for his efforts?

Yet the Thénardiers were not to be trusted, and Jean Valjean had been negligent before—first when he stole a coin from a child, then when he allowed too much time to pass before demanding the return of Cosette.

Suddenly Javert's eyes opened. In the twilight, they gleamed like the eyes of a wild animal. Wary, Valjean met his gaze, but Javert did not seem to recognize him. After a moment, his eyes fell shut again, and Valjean quickly pulled his suddenly trembling hand back to clutch it against his chest as though it had been burned.

How was it possible that his tormentor was resting against him like one of the men Javert himself had guarded in the bagne?

Worse, how could Valjean sleep in the same bed and wake with thoughts of Boucard in his mind, when it was Javert's heat he felt against his skin?

Valjean had thought the sins of the galleys long left behind. Once he was free, he had believed that his body had no use for such comforts anymore when there was a blue sky and fields stretching before him to enjoy. But ever since Javert had put him into irons, the memories had resurfaced, and with them those barely remembered moments of pleasure and comfort.

Perhaps that, too, was a sign that he needed to leave Javert behind as quickly as possible. Once Valjean was free once more, those troubling urges would subside again. His body craved this comfort because it was the only thing it had known; but there was no comfort here for him, not with Javert—Javert who would rather whip him than accept Valjean's offer of pleasure.

Slowly, Valjean rose. When he opened the curtains, he could see the child alone outside in the light of the dawn, sweeping the street in front of the inn. She wore wooden shoes and a thin, threadbare linen dress. What had become of Fantine’s money, and of the six hundred francs Valjean himself had sent? They had not been used to clothe her, nor to feed her, Valjean thought as he watched the girl slowly do her work, her face hollow and her face gaunt like that of an old woman, even though she had only lived eight years on this earth.

When he went downstairs into the taproom, the innkeeper's wife was already at work. Valjean answered her questions in quiet monosyllables, then ordered breakfast—a cup of broth for Javert, and bread and cheese for himself.

“Send your servant girl up with it,” Valjean added after a moment, as though the thought had just come to him. “I will need someone to help, and to run to the doctor and the apothecary. My companion needs to be watched all day, the fever is yet high. How much for the day?”

“That evil jade?” the Thénardier exclaimed, her head turning to stare at the girl who had just appeared in the doorway with her broom in her hand. “Thirty sous, monsieur. Just let me know if she makes any trouble.”

Valjean inclined his head and returned to Javert. He managed to wash him and reapply some ointment to the wound before at last, the door opened and the small, trembling child entered, carrying a tray with their breakfast.


	28. Chapter 28

The next time Javert resurfaced from the fires of Hell, there was a light shining somewhere nearby. He was resting on something soft, and his mind, which had been ravaged by visions of demons for so long, was pleasantly hazy. He was comfortable. His tongue felt dry, and if he tried to turn his head, there was a steady, low throb behind his eyes—but for once, he was happy to simply rest quietly, enjoying this respite from what seemed to him an eternity of torment.

Gradually, he became aware of the warmth by his side. More time passed, and then came the sudden awareness that the warmth next to him was that of a body. He could not say how he knew—perhaps muscles had flexed against his own, or the man had shifted. With that realization came a return of further memories.

Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean had brought him to this place. Was this Montfermeil?

His brow furrowing, Javert managed at last to turn his head, ignoring the angry throb behind his eyes that threatened a repeat of the stabbing pain.

Next to him, Jean Valjean was resting. Javert's first look was for his throat—it was free of the collar. It had been no nightmare then. Those events—the attack, the poison, the ride to Montfermeil—had truly happened.

But Valjean had not let him die. Valjean had not abandoned him either. Why? It made no sense—unless Valjean enjoyed it to have Javert in his power for once.

Revenge. It was the only possibility left that made sense.

Too weak to move, he stared at Valjean. The bed they were resting in was large, but Valjean was still so close that he could have touched him, had he been able to lift his arm.

Valjean looked exhausted. Javert realized now that the light came from a candle burning on a table somewhere behind Valjean. Had Valjean been staying awake by his side?

Dimly, he could recall the doctor now, and then hands that washed him. Had that been Valjean?

This was a lot of work to keep a man alive, just to take his revenge. Hardly worth it just to kill him after all...

Of course, there were other ways a man could take revenge. Had he not seen Valjean naked and aroused before? Had Valjean not offered to pleasure him?

Javert studied Valjean's face, looking for hints as to the man's desires. But for once, there was no sign of an impending crime he could make out. All he could see was tiredness in the weary lines of Valjean's face, his mouth narrow and unhappy. Valjean's breathing was regular and deep. As Javert watched, a strand of hair shifted, gently rising and falling with every breath Valjean took.

How strange that a convict could look so peaceful in his guard's bed, Javert thought, and then sleep drew him under once more.

***

Voices filtered slowly into his dreams. One of the voices was familiar. The other...

Puzzled, he tried to make sense of it. After a moment, he relaxed. It was the mayor, wasting his time once more on the children of the town with his coconut toys and his alms. As always, the thought brought with it a deep resentment which he dutifully tried to bury. 

For a long time, everything was quiet. He dozed fitfully. Once, he found the strength to half open his eyes. The curtains had been pulled back and a window was open, bathing the room in sunlight and air that smelled of flowers. It puzzled him. The afternoon sun had never hit his small apartment that way; he only had sunlight in the early morning...

When he blinked, he saw that the curtain had been drawn again, and the room was filled by the warm, yellow light of a lamp. His thoughts were sluggish and slow. He could hear voices again and smell the scent of food.

“Put it down here,” Valjean said.

Javert blinked, but he already had to strain to continue to listen; turning his head seemed impossible when his body felt as heavy as stone.

“Sit,” Valjean then continued. Again a pause. “No, he will have some broth later. I am not very hungry. Why don't you finish my food for me?”

Who was Valjean talking to? Already Javert's vision grew dark again. Then there was a girl's voice, and Javert smiled to have the mystery solved—yet more charity, of course—before blackness swallowed him once more.

***

“Javert. Are you awake?”

Javert did not know how much time had passed. Everything ached. He felt as though he was being squashed by a rock. It hurt to even try to breathe, as though every muscle and every nerve of his body had been overextended to the point of rawness.

Then there was a touch. A cool hand came to rest on his forehead. It remained there for a long while, and at last he could hear Valjean make a thoughtful sound.

“Your temperature is still high,” Valjean murmured. “I should have cut deeper—sucked out more of the poison. Why would you test me so?”

Who was Valjean talking to now? This time, Javert could not hear the voices of children, but Valjean's muttered words seemed to wake a memory.

Poison.

That was right... There had been a poisoned blade. The road-mender. And Valjean had—

With an almost inaudible groan of horror Javert opened his eyes as he remembered the sight of Valjean between his legs, those blood-red lips pressed to his thigh.

Valjean's eyes met his. There was surprise on Valjean's face, a certain wariness as he held perfectly still. Javert could still feel those cool fingers pressed to his brow.

For a long moment, they looked at each other. Finally, Valjean hastily pulled his hand back, rubbing it absentmindedly with his other hand as though he had scalded himself.

“How do you feel?” Valjean asked, and a furious amusement bubbled up in Javert once more.

But when he opened his mouth, no laughter broke free. Grimly, he stared at Valjean, feeling sapped of all strength and too weak to even lift his head. Heat still coursed through his veins, his pulse throbbing at his temple.

“Water,” he managed to force out at last, taken aback by how weak and rough his own voice sounded.

Still wary—as though there was anything Javert could do when he was too weak to even lift a hand!—Valjean turned away from him for a moment. When he reappeared by Javert's side, it was with a glass in his hand. Carefully, he lifted it to Javert's lips.

It was humiliating to drink in such a way, but Javert was so grateful for the cool water soothing his parched throat that it was easy to ignore Valjean's hands on him.

When Valjean turned aside to set the glass down, Javert took a deep breath, his swollen tongue no longer quite as heavy in his mouth.

“This is a fine coup,” he muttered half to himself, “yes, this is what comes of treating you with kindness, brigandry...”

“It was not kindness that made you lash me,” Valjean replied as he showed up in Javert's field of vision once more, speaking easily despite the content of his words, a faint worry in his eyes.

“Regardless,” Valjean then continued, “I won't leave while you are in danger, and you are too weak to move. So you need not fear. I know you won't believe me, and I have little reason to wish you well, but I won't let you come to harm as long as God has given you into my power.”

Now a laugh escaped Javert after all. It turned into a cough as soon as it left his throat, and then Valjean's arms were on him once more, pressing him firmly back into the bed before giving him more water to sip.

“Sleep now,” Valjean said firmly.

When Javert closed his eyes in furious exhaustion, he felt a cool cloth coming to rest on his forehead, easing some of the worst throbbing at his temple while he slid away into darkness once more.

***

“If Madame sees it, she will hit me.”

Something about the voice was familiar. Javert struggled out of the quagmire of sleep that wanted to draw him under again. This time, it was a little easier.

Silently, he kept his eyes closed, becoming aware once more of the soft mattress beneath him and the warm blanket spread above him. The shirt he wore was soaked with sweat, and his cheeks were itching. He remembered now the grip of the fever. It must have broken in the night, for his head felt much clearer, although he was still so weak that even the thought of raising a hand made him break out in sweat again.

“Madame is not here. She won't see.” That was the quiet voice of Valjean, answering the earlier question.

What was he talking about? A new villainy? Certainly it should not come as a surprise that Valjean would encourage the breaking of rules wherever he went.

As Javert listened, he heard a spoon scrape the bottom of a bowl, and then the quiet sounds of a hungry child trying to eat as quickly as possible, before another might take the bowl away.

A distant memory stirred. Javert frowned, forgetting all about the child and Jean Valjean as for a moment, he found himself transported back to a small, cold room. Taken aback, for he had not thought of the circumstances of his youth in a very long time, and indeed considered them of no particular importance for the righteous, dutiful man who had risen from that child, he brushed them aside at last, annoyed by the visitor who had conjured up these memories.

There would always be hungry children. That was the truth Jean Valjean refused to see. Feeding one or ten made no difference, nor did the mere fact that a child was starving set it above the law. What made a difference was only the choices one made. And teaching a hungry child to depend on   
alms and philanthropy only led to one more thief in the streets of Paris in the end.

“Will you go and look after the horse?” Valjean finally asked.

“Yes, monsieur,” the girl answered obediently. Then there came the clatter of bowls being cleared away, before the heavy fall of the door heralded the fact that Javert was once more alone with Jean Valjean.

“You are awake,” Valjean said quietly, his voice now much closer.

Disgruntled, Javert opened his eyes to find Valjean giving him an unsurprised look.

Valjean's hand came to rest lightly on his brow. “Your fever broke. You must feel better.”

“I'm soaked in sweat,” Javert shot back, although his voice still refused to do his bidding, and it came out not as the scathing remark he had intended it to be, but as a pitiful croak.

Valjean hesitated a moment. “I'll wash you. You'll feel better,” he said at last. “And I need to look at the wound.”

The wound... With sudden, blinding clarity Javert remembered the moment when Valjean had pressed the glowing knife to his thigh. He clenched his jaw, grimly watching Valjean when the blanket was pulled off him.

“How pleased you must be,” he said in a low voice. “I expect there will be more talk now of mercy and compassion. But I know what you've done. I know who you are, Jean Valjean.”

Valjean did not bother with a reply. Instead, he carefully pulled off Javert's nightshirt, then began to wipe the sweat off his skin with a damp cloth.

Voicelessly, Javert laughed, ignoring the agonizing throbbing of the wound on his thigh.

“Yes, I know you,” he muttered again. Darkness was beginning to encroach on his vision once more, but he fought it with all the relentless determination of the guard dog.

Slowly, the cloth was wiped across his chest. Javert was struggling to breathe. The fire in his veins had been fanned into new heat, and the coolness of the cloth was seductive. But how could he relax into the false comfort Valjean offered when he knew what Valjean truly was—a runaway slave now toying with his master?

“How pleased you must be to have your revenge at last,” he murmured, already half asleep. “Have a care, Jean Valjean...”

“Nothing about this pleases me,” Valjean replied quietly, and then there were fingers on Javert's thigh, slowly sliding upward so that he drew in a shocked breath at the sensation. The poison within him throbbed, and a sudden tightness took his breath away. Even had he wanted to, he would not have been able to speak.

Then the fingers lifted, only to return a moment later slick and cool, spreading an ointment over the brand Valjean had left.

Javert's eyes had fallen closed. In his dreams, he once more saw Valjean's lips, dark and glistening, before that white head bent over his lap.

“It will take a while to heal,” Valjean said distantly.

His fingers were still resting on Javert's thigh, where the poison now unfurled tendrils of heat, twisting upward to coil in his stomach, then sinking lower, a knot of heat between his legs...

As Javert shifted, he felt Valjean's hand brush against him. A groan escaped him before the fever vision swallowed him whole once more, leaving him trapped with the naked, gleaming body of Jean Valjean, marked with red lines that throbbed and pulsed in time with the agony deep within him.


	29. Chapter 29

Exhaustion weighed down on him as Valjean moved back to the chair he had pulled close to the window. It was not far to the ground: a man hanging from the window by his fingers could drop down without injury.

His eyes returned to Javert, who seemed to be uneasily asleep. Javert's brow was furrowed and gleaming with sweat once more, and every now and then he mumbled unintelligible things.

Resentment filled Valjean at the sight. Could it truly be expected of a man to care so for his worst enemy? The doctor had proclaimed that if Javert survived the first night, he would live; well, that first night had passed, and although he was still suffering from the effects of the poison, he seemed better than he had been.

Valjean's gaze dropped towards the bag he had brought inside with him. He had filled it with the money he had unearthed; now, with Javert asleep, perhaps it was time to make use of this chance and bury it again in a different place.

And yet, had he not made a deal with Javert? The money against Cosette. Could he break his word?

But then, Javert had no right to the money, nor had the state. And Valjean would need money in order to care for the girl as he had promised her mother...

A sudden commotion made him stand and look out of the window. There, Cosette stood in front of the old building that served as the inn's stable. She clenched her hands around a bucket—she must have gone and fed the horse, as he had asked of her, to give him time to care for Javert. But now the formidable figure of Madame Thénardier had appeared, gesturing towards the forest from which Valjean had arrived with Javert.

“If there is no water left, Mam'selle Toad will have to fetch it herself, won't she? That poor gentleman paid for it,” the Thénardier woman said as she towered over the trembling girl.

With a despairing look and a mute nod, and another look towards the house, as if even now she hoped that someone would come to her rescue, Cosette turned and went towards the forest with the large pail in her hands. Valjean watched her disappear into the trees with a deep frown before he turned to look at Javert. After a minute, he silently took hold of the bag, then left the room.

For ten minutes, Valjean walked along the road that led him into the forest. When he reached a spot where an old, splintered tree stood by the side of the path, he left the road and walked straight into the wood. After fifty steps, he came across a small rivulet; he followed along its banks until he reached a place where the rivulet widened, surrounded by rough, moss-covered rocks.

Further rocks littered the ground. Valjean walked among them until he came to a small hill, behind which a hollow full of knee-high ferns opened. Valjean ignored the ferns. Instead, he circled the hill until he came upon a pile of cracked rocks, which seemed to have been piled up here by a giant's hand. Lichen covered them, and judging by the weeds growing from cracks, the pile had not been disturbed in decades.

Valjean set down the bag. Then he took hold of the topmost rock and lifted it. Beneath, a small hollow was revealed, surrounded on all four sides by other rocks in the pile. This hollow, a natural cavern, was dry and dusty; even so, Valjean knew that it could not serve as a hiding place for very long.

He opened the bag. Within, the six hundred thousand francs rested, wrapped in waxed cloth, which he had taken out of the box during the ride to Montfermeil. Now, he took half of the banknotes and wrapped them up tightly once more. Then he placed them into the hollow, covering it with the rock.

When he took a step back, there was no sign of the treasure hidden beneath; even so, he made certain to walk past the well where Cosette had been sent. After a few minutes, he circled back and approached the path from a different direction.

But Cosette was all alone. The heavy pail had been only half filled with water; nevertheless, the child still struggled to lift it.

When she saw him appear from the forest, she gasped and nearly dropped her bucket, only to smile with quiet relief when she saw that it was him. She asked no questions, as though it seemed completely natural to her that the man who had appeared all of a sudden, sparing her from her mistress's ire and giving her food, would also appear in the forest as well, like a guardian angel God had sent her.

Wordlessly, Valjean took hold of the heavy bucket. The girl was content to walk by his side as they returned to the inn together—the bag still slung over Valjean's shoulder, but now much lighter than it had been before.

Fate willing, he and Cosette would be far away before Javert had regained enough strength to alert the local station-house and have Valjean in chains once more. But even if that plan should not work out, now there were three hundred francs hidden in the forest of Montfermeil. Should some event force him to flee at night, or should Javert find a way to take hold of the bag, Valjean would still have enough left to take Cosette and run.

And in the worst case—if Valjean should be returned to slavery or to prison, even to the lash—he might claim that the road-mender had stolen part of the money before he had run off. Javert had been unconscious for their travel through the forest; he might not believe Valjean, but he could not prove otherwise. Valjean would suffer again, but he had suffered before. Eventually, he would make an escape once more.

In that case, it would be best to retrieve the coffer with its filling of chestnut shavings against the dampness, and bury the money properly. It might take years until he could make a return, for Javert would be twice as watchful.

As Valjean looked at the small child next to him, he could observe the pale, drawn face grow somber as they drew closer to the inn.

No, it could not be years. For Cosette's sake alone, he would soon have to make an escape. Javert was slowly winning the fight against the poison. If Javert made it through this night, Valjean would leave. While the poison weakened him, surely it would not be long now until Javert was lucid enough to call for the proprietors of the inn, and then for the police.

Jean Valjean did not doubt that in such a case the Thénardiers might be convinced to ignore Javert's claims—but he remembered too well the letters sent to Fantine with ever-growing demands. If he gave them a reason for blackmail, they would make use of it.

“Water the horse,” he told Cosette gently when they reached the inn's courtyard, “and then bring what water remains with you to our room.”

“Yes, monsieur,” she said again and obediently carried the bucket toward the stable.

For a moment, Valjean watched her, until the slight figure in its hole-ridden dress had vanished through the door. After a moment's hesitation, Valjean turned away from the inn and quickly made his way through the village's streets.

There was a small market place with a handful of stands. Here, one could purchase vegetables, fruit and a motley assortment of items, from plates to rope and used wicker baskets. One cart held a collection of clothes, used but clean. When Valjean saw a simple dress of black wool, he purchased it together with a small coat, then returned to the inn, the clothes kept hidden in his bag. 

Nevertheless, even without the sight of the telltale purchase, Madame Thénardier was already waiting when he entered the tavern.

“I need the girl today, monsieur,” she declared instead of a greeting. “Guests will arrive very soon, rooms must be cleaned, beds arranged, and for the pittance you gave me it will be impossible to find any help on such short notice!”

Jean Valjean remained quiet while Madame Thénardier talked. When she was done, he was forced to hand over a franc, and in return received the promise that the girl would bring soup and bread to his room as soon as it was done.

Deep in thoughts, Valjean climbed the stairs once more. To his relief, Javert was still asleep. But he truly could not stay much longer. He had paid an unreasonable amount of money for Cosette's time in the first place; thirty sous, which was what an adult laborer might have earned in his factory. And now a franc. Surely tomorrow, some new pretense would be found to ask for ten francs, and then they would have all the unwanted attention people like the Thénardiers saved for a wealthy costumer.

Pensively, Valjean looked at the window again. Perhaps, if he left with the girl during the night...

When he looked back at the bed, Javert met his eyes. Instinctively, Valjean tensed, the lash marks on his back beginning to ache again. Had Javert noticed that he had left with the bag?

“You're awake,” he said.

Javert remained silent. There was sweat on his brow; his hair was damp with it. But there was a focus in his eyes, and all of a sudden Valjean remembered the way Javert had hardened when he had closed his lips around the wound.

Valjean shivered, his mouth suddenly dry. Despite that unsettling memory, he forced himself to step towards the bed. His hand did not shake as he reached out to rest it on Javert's head.

Javert's skin was still warm—worse, Javert's eyes had followed him. For one long moment, they were staring at each other. Beneath Javert's unblinking gaze, Valjean once more felt the weight of the collar around his throat, even though it was Javert now who was helpless, and Valjean who had the means to achieve freedom.

Why was he still here? It was madness to wait until the night.

Javert was still suffering from the poison, but the doctor believed that the worst danger had passed. What did Valjean owe this man? Javert believed he had purchased his body—but no man had a right to another man's life. Whatever sins Valjean had committed, God could not ask such a sacrifice of him.

Half determined to grab the bag and take his leave as soon as Javert closed his eyes again, Valjean lowered his hand and took a step back—and then, all of a sudden, Javert's hand shot out.

Long fingers curled around his wrist with iron cruelty. Manacled thus to the bed, Valjean froze, his chest rising and falling with panicked breaths as Javert stared at him.

There was a new lucidity in his eyes that had not been there the night before. Had Valjean waited too long? Had he once more damned the child to further torment because of his reluctance to act?

A droplet of sweat slid from Javert's brow until it vanished in the thick hair of his whiskers.

“Water,” he said at last, his voice rough.

Shaken, it took Valjean a moment to comprehend the demand. Then, he quickly poured water from a pitcher next to the bed into a glass. Javert's fingers had lost their hold on him, his head dropping back onto the pillow as though the sudden outburst had used up his remaining strength.

With trembling fingers, Valjean lifted the cup to Javert's lips. He had to support his head with his other hand, shuddering anew at the vulnerable warmth of Javert's skull against his palm. How strange it was to feel Javert, this man of iron cruelty, revealed as a living, breathing being with all of his weaknesses.

He could not help but feel resentment at that thought, for when had Javert ever shown him the same consideration? And yet, regardless of how Javert might think of him, Valjean could not abandon Javert to death or suffering without adding another evil deed to those already written on his soul.

Once Javert was safely asleep once more, he would send out Cosette to inform the doctor that he would leave Javert in his care. He would pay for his treatment too. And then, once that debt was settled, the road to Paris waited for him. Javert did not have many lucid moments yet; Valjean and Cosette would be in the city before Javert found someone who would believe his tale.

Breathing heavily, Javert's head fell back into the cushion when he was done. Valjean placed the glass on the nightstand. When he turned, Javert was still staring at him. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes that had looked at Valjean with such frightening suspicion earlier were now dark and hazy.

“Jean Valjean,” Javert muttered, half asleep, or perhaps drifting into some fever vision, “have a care... See what comes of kindness. My fault for not having him gelded...”

With a groan, Javert shifted, his head turning to the side as his eyes slid shut. Valjean watched, frozen, remembering once more the agony of the flogging, and the humiliation of Javert's hand squeezing around the globes of his testicles.

“Still,” Javert mumbled into the pillow, “what a shame...”

Valjean swallowed as he remembered the brush of Javert's hard prick against his hand.

It was important to remember this. No matter how weak Javert was right now, and no matter how often Javert had declared that he had no interest in demanding such things of Valjean, his body did not share that opinion. And if there was one thing Valjean had learned in the bagne, it was that even the most reluctant of men would eventually be overwhelmed by base desire, given an opportunity or power over another.

Still shaken, Valjean opened the door to leave the room, only to suddenly find himself face to face with Thénardier.

Valjean did not speak as he looked at the man in front of him. After a moment, Thénardier gave him an obsequious smile.

“How does your companion fare, monsieur? We will of course strive to assist you in any matter you desire, just say the word.”

Valjean nodded in acknowledgment, but kept his silence. After a moment, Thénardier's smile first faltered, then widened.

“I have been thinking, these past few days—no, worried, that is more like it, worried day and night, monsieur, for you said you were attacked by brigands on the road?”

“Just one brigand,” Valjean said curtly. He was still uncomfortably aware of Javert sleeping in the bed behind him, out of view from Thénardier. And yet, what if Javert should wake just in time to give away his secret?

“And yet you have not been to the station-house yet, monsieur. Why is that? Ah, of course, your friend is wounded, near death, no time for such things. And yet, one does wonder. See, I have a friend, a good friend, and he is a road-mender. He would know about such things. He could help monsieur find the brigand responsible; yes, there is even the possibility that he might have caught a glimpse on the road of that man and could describe him to the police. Only—and this is very strange, monsieur will agree that it is a great coincidence—this friend has not been seen since the night monsieur arrived.”

Valjean continued to stare at Thénardier, giving no outward sign that he knew the man Thénardier was speaking off. Inwardly, he was shaken. The words Thénardier had just uttered were clearly a threat. What could be done?

Boulatruelle had run after the attack. Surely he had not returned, for in that case, if he was truly Thénardier's accomplice, they would not have been left undisturbed since their arrival.

Regardless, it was a warning sign. This night, he would have to flee with Cosette; there was no time to lose.

“I do not know your friend,” Valjean said tersely, “but if he has not been seen, it is possible he might have encountered the same brigand. Good day to you, monsieur.”

He retreated into his room. Once inside, he remained motionless for a long time. Minutes passed before he hear the tell-tale creaking of the stairs which revealed that Thénardier had retreated.

Surely it would not be for long. This victory was hard-won. From the understanding he had gained of the Thénardiers, he was certain now that tomorrow he would be presented with a large bill, together with further threats. But by that time, Valjean would be gone.

Uncomfortably, he looked once more towards the bed. Javert was still asleep, his brow still damp with sweat. The effects of the poison had not fully worn off. Valjean could have made it easier and used the laudanum to ensure that Javert would sleep through the night, but something in him hesitated at the thought. Even Javert, that fearful watchdog, was not a creature to abandon helpless and drugged in this establishment.

Yet at the same time, Valjean had done what could be done. Once he had escaped from the inn with Cosette, he would send her to the doctor with a message and a hundred franc note, delivering Javert into the man's care. Surely it would not take much time at all until Javert was well enough to tell of what had truly happened, and then the police would be after him once more. 

But if all went well, he and Cosette would have long since vanished into the narrow streets of Paris, where a new coat and a wig would make him unrecognizable, and where Cosette's new dress would accomplish the same.

“Jean Valjean, now I have you,” Javert muttered in his dreams, his jaw clenching, and Valjean paled, staring at the bed until Javert sank deeper into sleep once more.


	30. Chapter 30

When Javert woke, for the first time in a long while his mind was free of the fog that had clouded his thoughts. With this sudden clarity, he took inventory of himself: there was the wound at his thigh, still aching with every thud of his heart, a constant pulsing of pain—but a pain that was bearable.

He felt weak, strangely hollow, as though the poison and the fever had eaten away the substance of his body—but when he moved an arm, his muscles obeyed him again, although he yet lacked strength.

For several minutes, he concentrated on breathing slowly and evenly as sensations filtered in and he carefully filed them away.

He was resting on the bed. It was night. Next to him, Valjean lay asleep. The man was breathing regularly, although his breathing was so soft that Javert almost could not make it out.

When Javert opened his eyes at last, the room was filled with darkness. Enough moonlight filtered in that he could see the outline of the table.

For a moment he contemplated leaving the bed—but certainly that would wake Valjean, and what then? Jean Valjean was strong enough to easily overpower him. Dosed with laudanum, Javert could be kept helpless in this room for as long as Valjean desired. No, it would not do to give his newly regained clarity of mind away. Perhaps it would be best to wait until morning. From what he remembered of those fever-filled hours, Valjean would slip out of the room every now and then, retrieving water, broth or, perhaps, looking for the child.

Javert clenched his jaw. How much time had passed? How would he explain this to the commissaire?

Then he remembered the money. Had Valjean already found a new hiding place for it? 

Javert needed to make an escape and act quickly. He had to find the nearest station-house, and he had to return with backup to subdue Valjean once more.

Unless—what had happened to his gun?

His brow furrowing, he tried to remember what had taken place in the forest. Dimly, he thought that he might have dropped it—but what had happened then? Had Valjean taken it along? In that case, if he could find it while Valjean was out, this game between them could be settled much quicker...

Valjean's breathing did not change as Valjean slowly slipped out of the bed. Javert froze as he realized that Valjean was awake—that, perhaps, he had been lying awake next to Javert all this time.

Javert's heart began to pound. Had Valjean realized that Javert had recovered from the poison? Was Valjean reaching out for the gun or the knife even now; was he reaching for a pillow in the darkness to smother Javert's cries for help; was he—

Soundlessly, Valjean moved towards the table, blocking some of the moonlight that fell in.

As Javert watched in the darkness, Valjean silently pushed open the window. Then he moved back towards the table. He reached down to take hold of some massive shape—was it a weapon?

It was a bag, Javert realized when Valjean moved back into the sparse moonlight that illuminated the window.

He could make out the silhouette of Valjean's broad form against the night sky. Everything suddenly became clear. Jean Valjean was making his escape. Valjean thought him still under the influence of the poison, lost in fever dreams, too weak to sit up by himself—but the fever had passed and left Javert with clarity. His limbs still felt weak, but he was not helpless. His muscles would obey him, now that the poison no longer pulsed through his blood.

Javert did not make a sound. He had ceased even to breathe as he stared from beneath lowered eyelids at where Valjean stood at the window He watched as the satchel was secured around Valjean's shoulder—and then Javert pushed back the covers and flung himself at Jean Valjean with all the voracity of the starving wolf.

For days now, Valjean had mocked him by walking around without the collar around his neck, free to do as he pleased while Javert was in his power instead. The tables had been turned on him—but they would just as easily turn back on Valjean now.

Valjean stumbled back a step when Javert's body hit his in the darkness. Javert used his surprise to wrap his arm around Valjean's neck, while Valjean reached out helplessly for the window, as if he thought even now of flinging himself into freedom.

Into the silence of their fierce struggle, the creaking of the door fell like the shot of a cannon. Both Javert and Valjean stiffened, a frozen tableau of Laocoön embraced by the snake as their eyes turning towards the door.

In the darkness of their room, it was difficult to see; at that moment, a cloud was passing before the moon, and the twilight had turned to blackness. Nevertheless, there was just enough light left that Javert thought he saw someone enter through the door.

_Brigands_ , was his first thought, and then, _accomplices of Valjean_.

But Valjean was frozen in his arms, ceasing to breathe as he waited. Javert could feel the beating of the panicked heart against his own chest.

For a heartbeat, they waited, pressed together and held immobile by suspension and fear.

Then the shadows that had entered through the door had drifted towards the bed. Something hard and heavy cut through the air.

It hit the pillows where only moments earlier, their heads had rested.

At the unexpected lack of resistance, one of the shadows growled. “Make a light!” it said. “They have flown like birds from the nest!”

A tiny light was struck into existence, then lit a lamp.

In the sudden light, the speaker was revealed to be no other but Sieur Boulatruelle, the road-mender, holding a wooden club in his hand. By his side, Thénardier himself stood, holding the lamp.

Aghast, the two intruders stared at their intended victims, whom the lamp had revealed right in front of them, instead of safely asleep awaiting their fate. Then, before Thénardier could raise an alarm or Boulatruelle could attack, Valjean pulled out of Javert's grasp. With ease, he tore the club from the road-mender's hand, and a second later, it was tossed out of the window, followed by the lamp.

In the ensuing gloom, Valjean grabbed hold of each man, his hand taking a fist of each villain's coat. Without even the smallest sound of a struggle, both men were pushed towards the door.

But now the moon passed out from behind the cloud again, its pale light filling the room. And from the corner of his eye, Javert saw the telltale gleam of a knife in the hand of Boulatruelle.

Without thinking, he lunged forward, one hand grasping the neck of Jean Valjean, pulling him backwards while Javert's other arm pushed against the door with enough force to shut it right in the face of the two brigands. His heart pounding and his entire body shaking from the exertion, Javert barred the door with what strength remained to him.

Then his knees gave in.

He would have fallen to the floor, if not at that moment, Jean Valjean had reached out in turn, a strong hand grabbing hold of his shirt.

“Silent now,” Valjean whispered. “And quick! There's no time left.”

His mind reeling, Javert found himself half carried, half pushed towards the window.

“Hold on to me,” Valjean said—and then Javert's arms were placed around Valjean's broad neck. “Don't let go, do you understand?”

Javert bared his teeth, furious despite his weakness. “I have no idea what you intend,” he began, “but I have not forgotten that you are—”

Valjean swung one leg over the window sill, and Javert, clinging as he was to Valjean's back now, found himself dragged outside along with Valjean.

Startled into silence, his fingers bit into Valjean's skin as suddenly the ground beneath him dropped away.

“Hold on,” Valjean said again, the strain audible in his voice.

Wearing only his thin nightshirt, Javert could feel the flexing of the powerful back against his chest, every muscle in hard relief as Valjean clung to the window sill by his fingers, Javert still holding on to his back.

Then Valjean let go.

A second later, the ground rushed up to meet them. The impact drove the air from Javert's chest, but he managed to silence his groan of surprise just in time.

“Hurry,” Valjean murmured, even as he slung an arm around Javert to drag him away. “If they decide to come after us...”

“They'll wake everyone, and then where will that leave them?” Javert replied, fury rising up in him as he thought of the road-mender's cudgel hitting the pillow where his head had rested. They were halfway to the stable before he realized that he was making common cause with Valjean.

“Have a care,” he muttered through his teeth, enraged and humiliated by his lingering weakness, “if you think that this—”

“Hush. This is not the time to argue.” Valjean's tone broke no argument. His hair gleamed silver in the light of the moon.

Javert felt a sudden urge to touch it, or to hide it beneath a cap, for Thénardier would know what they were up to as soon as he had the thought to look out of a window.

The stable loomed before them now, a black shape jutting out of the darkness. Valjean hustled them inside, then closed the door. Inside, it was quiet save for the occasional stomping of feet. The horses were resting. Without lighting a lamp, Valjean dragged Javert along to a bale of straw; there, Javert was abandoned.

“Sit,” Valjean whispered. “Be quiet. Your life is in danger here just as much as mine.”

To see Valjean take control so easily still filled Javert with rage, but the poison that had burned through his body had left him weak. He felt as feeble as an old man—and of course, there was truth to Valjean's words. The road-mender had now twice attempted murder, and this second time, Thénardier had been a willing accomplice.

“Take me to the station-house,” Javert demanded once Valjean returned a minute later with the hastily saddled mare and an old, dusty coat.

Valjean ignored him. By his side, the girl had appeared out of the dust-filled darkness like a ghost. Had she slept near the horse? Valjean lifted her onto the mare's back, then gave Javert a look that allowed no protest.

“Silence,” Valjean said in a low voice. “Mount the horse. With any luck, they are still arguing whether they dare to take to the streets after us.”

It took Valjean's help to mount the mare behind the girl, even with the bale of straw assisting him. The girl was stiff and silent. Had Valjean told her of his plans?

No—this had been Valjean's plan all along, Javert realized now. He had disturbed Jean Valjean just when he was about to flee. Surely the girl had been told to sleep in the stable for just this case. But then the road-mender had upset Valjean's plans, and now here Javert was, attempting to flee together with Valjean and the child.

A grimace of disgust formed on Javert's face at the mess this endeavor had become.

Valjean lead the horse outside, so that Javert had to duck when they passed through the door. Javert remained silent, although he kept a careful eye on the house. Was something moving behind the curtain? Or would they be met with knives on the road once more?

The inn's door opened just when they turned from the inn into the street.

“Run,” Javert hissed.

The clatter of the mare's hooves on the stones was impossible to miss. All caution was forgotten now as they hastened along the street. It was dark still; only the moonlight lit the path before them.

A minute later, they had left the last houses behind. Before them, the forest loomed. Javert dared to turn—were they being followed? After the long rest, the mare was trotting quickly. Valjean was running by her side, the bag still slung across his shoulders.

How long could he run? Were Thénardier and Boulatruelle to take horses from the stable, they would eventually catch up. But what excuse could they give for such a commotion in the middle of the night? Was there not a station-house nearby, and an officer of the police who might assist Javert?

Of course, such assistance might come too late, should either of the two villains carry a gun.

“If you surrender yourself now,” Javert whispered, “if you take us to the station-house instead, the girl will be safe—”

“There's no one there,” the girl's thin, frightened voice interrupted.

She was trembling. Was it fear, or the cold of the night?

But then, she had reason to be afraid. To run from the house where she was fed and clothed would soon teach her that life on the streets held far more to fear than a strict mistress.

Javert's jaw tightened. “She's lying,” he accused. And of course, the brat was probably in league with Valjean.

“No, monsieur,” she whispered, terrified. “The inspector left yesterday, to Paris for a hearing. I heard them talk about it in the tap-room when I fetched the broth.”

In frustration, Javert bared his teeth at the dark shapes of trees that rushed past them. “What a coincidence this all is. You are the devil, Jean Valjean, do you hear me?”

“Hush,” Valjean said, and then he tightened his grip on the reins, and they left the path.

The mare slowed to a walk. The trees stood more densely here, and they had to find a way between fallen trunks, thorny bushes and the occasional rock or rivulet.

It was quiet now. There was no sound but the rustling of branches in the wind above them, and the crunching of dry leaves beneath the mare's hooves. Once, Javert turned his head, and he thought that he saw a dim light in the distance—as though someone were walking through the forest with a lamp in his hand.

He nudged Valjean with his foot, then nodded towards where the distant light was flickering. He could not make out Valjean's expression in the darkness, but the man froze, and they all halted for several minutes, silent while far behind them, the light wove in and out of existence behind trees. At last, the mare snorted and Valjean stepped up to her head, stroking her to calm her. Javert kept an eye on the distant light—but it had now winked out of existence.

Their pursuers must have traveled on along the road, until their lamp was finally out of sight—unless the wind had carried the sound to them, and they had doused the lamp as they left the path to follow them through the forest.

Javert's throat was dry as he listened to the creaking of branches. Every now and then, there was a rustling in the underbrush—mice and rats, or a hedgehog preparing for winter, or perhaps a rabbit.

Or had their pursuers found their hiding place?

Valjean's hand brushed his thigh. The touch was short—a heartbeat of reassurance, to alert him to the fact that Valjean intended to travel on. It sent a surge of unexpected heat through Javert.

Javert grit his teeth, concentrating instead on the steady agony of the brand. How many days had it been? He had lost all sense of time in his poison delirium, but every motion made the brand pulse with constant pain.

Step after step, the mare moved forward, and they moved away from Montfermeil. After an hour of this agonizingly slow journey through the night, they reached a part of the forest where it became even more difficult to travel onward. The oaks and birches had turned into conifers here that grew closely together, branches intertwining so that they were faced by a large wall of needles and bristly wood.

“I know where we are,” Cosette suddenly whispered. “Monsieur... there's an old hut, at the edge of the forest. To the right.”

It was not safe to spend the night so close to Montfermeil. Surely Valjean's plan was to make it as close to Paris in the night as possible. With both Thénardier and Boulatruelle out on the hunt for them, and with Boulatruelle aware of the money, and perhaps accompanied by further brigands, to stay here was too much of a risk.

But with his brand relentlessly throbbing with hot pain and his body so weak that it was all he could do to cling to the back of the mare, Javert felt nothing but a faint trace of relief when, silently and with great reluctance, Valjean began to lead the mare toward the right.


	31. Chapter 31

The hut was little more than a broken down shed, although it was still in possession of a working door. They managed to lead the mare inside, who seemed glad to escape the dark forest. Within, they found a straw pallet in one corner, and a battered chest against one wall. A ladder with missing steps led up to a platform beneath the roof; there, more straw lined the ground.

Valjean reached into his bag and pulled out the coat he had purchased. “Sleep,” he gently told Cosette. Quietly, the girl curled up on the pallet, and he covered her with the coat.

Now, in the darkness of the hut, he looked at Javert. Only a small amount of moonlight fell in, enough to make out the shape of Javert and the horse, but no more.

Javert had been quiet for most of their flight through the forest. Valjean still shuddered to think of the girl overhearing the things Javert might chose to say to him any moment—but for now, it seemed as if they had entered a weary stalemate, both worn down and in pain, and both in danger from their pursuers.

At last, without a single word spoken, Javert turned and stiffly moved up the ladder. Valjean climbed up after him, assisting Javert with the final effort of pulling himself up on the platform.

Javert was breathing heavily by the time he collapsed into the dusty straw. Wearily, Valjean stretched out by his side. Beneath them, they could hear the mare shift before she settled with a small snort.

The shed was small, and the platform they rested on was narrow. Valjean could feel the line of Javert's leg press against his own. Even though he was tired and his back was still aching, now that they were resting, his mind was suddenly clear and wide awake.

He could hear Javert's breathing close to his own face. Up here, beneath the roof, it was too dark to see him, but he could sense the warmth of his body.

If he closed his eyes, it was almost as though they had never left the inn and he was still sharing a bed with Javert, who was deep in the grasp of his fever dreams.

But Javert was no longer lost to fever. And Valjean knew just what it was Javert had dreamed of when his body was burning up.

“This is not over yet,” Javert whispered in the darkness, his breath hot on Valjean's face. “Never believe that, Jean Valjean.”

Valjean's stomach twisted, an instinctual, confused longing for those moments of rare comfort in the bagne warring with the memory of Javert's hands on his body after he had whipped him.

Why did God have to test him so? Here He had given freedom into his reach once more, close enough to grasp—but what should have been Valjean's first night truly free had been spent saving the life of Javert, and then dragging Javert along with him as they fled their pursuers.

Javert had no power over him right now—but could a man be truly free in the company of his jailer?

Many, many years had passed since Boucard had pressed rough lips to his sweaty nape, holding him there in the press of unwashed bodies stretched out on planks. The burning pleasure of Boucard taking possession of his body had almost equaled the shame. Now, weakened, his body still aching, Valjean allowed himself to think of that embrace once more until the dim memory of comfort blocked out even the awareness of Javert next to him, and he fell into an uneasy sleep.

It was still dark when Valjean woke. In his sleep, he had rolled onto his back; the ache of the lash marks had woken him. Javert's leg still pressed against his thigh. With a wince, Valjean sat up. His body was itching; the straw had worked its way beneath his clothes as he slept. He moved his shoulders, trying to dislodge a prickly stalk that had irritated the healing wounds. At last, he was forced to pull off the shirt to shake it out.

Javert's hand clenched around his wrist so that Valjean froze.

“Where do you think you're going?” Javert hissed.

“Nowhere,” Valjean said quietly. He was thirsty; without Javert here, he might have descended the ladder and ventured outside to search for the closest rivulet.

“I would not abandon you wounded and alone,” Valjean added, for that was certainly what Javert was afraid of. The thought was tempting—but their pursuers had no knowledge of the nature of their relationship. They would hurt Javert, believing that he could tell them where the money had vanished to. And as much as Valjean yearned to be free of Javert's grasp, he could not buy his freedom at the price of another man's suffering.

Perhaps, once they had made it closer to Paris, far from where Thénardier or the road-mender might find him, he could leave Javert behind, vanishing into the streets of Paris before Javert reached a station-house or found a garrison.

Javert made a disbelieving sound. His hand was still clenched around Valjean's wrist with a grip as iron as the shackles he had worn not long ago.

“What is it you want from me?” Valjean asked after a moment's hesitation, his voice rough. The darkness unsettled him. Javert was too close, the heat of his body stifling, his breath on his face transporting him back into the bagne where he had slept and woken just like this: an animal chained with others, no escape from despair but the comfort of those chained to him.

In the darkness, Javert moved even closer. Valjean could not see him, but he could hear him breathe. Javert smelled of stale sweat and horse, just like Valjean, and a faint hint of the biting, herbal salve they had used for his wound.

Javert's free hand came up to his shoulder. With sudden force, Valjean found himself pushed down. He bit back a groan at the straw irritating his aching back, but he did not move.

Javert had bent low over him, and now the hand that had grabbed Valjean's wrist slid across his chest instead. Over his heart, it halted. Javert's fingers were warm. A callus rasped against his nipple, which tightened in response.

Valjean was breathing shallowly as his heart pounded against Javert's palm. The brand no longer ached, but the heat of Javert's skin recalled the agony of the iron pressing into his skin.

“I want nothing from you,” Javert said in a low voice. “This is what you are. This. If you think I will set you free because you—”

“I expect nothing from you.” Valjean was exhausted. His body ached. The lash marks had barely healed. How could he ever forget the truth of what Javert was saying?

Javert's hand rubbed along the letter seared in his skin, an unconscious, possessive motion. For one long moment, Valjean laid motionless beneath him as his heart raced in his chest, his nipple aching at the constant friction. No one had touched him so in nearly twenty years.

Valjean was afraid. But a part of him that had been asleep for so long had been woken, and the old longing for the comfort of a kind touch rose up once more. With his heart pounding with inexplicable dread, he allowed the touch to continue as he tried to remember the shape of Boucard's face, or the low laughter of Gilbert's pleasure.

Then an owl hooted outside, and the mare below them shifted. Javert pulled back his hand as though he had been scalded, and Valjean tiredly pushed himself upright once more.

“We should leave,” he murmured. “The sun will rise soon. We need to get out of the forest, and then move as quickly as we can.”

This time, Javert did not reply.

A short time later, they made their way along the edge of the forest. When Valjean had left the path during the past night, he had led them east; now, the forest continued to stretch out to their left as they traveled onward.

The mare carried Javert and Cosette, while Valjean walked. Every now and then, Valjean would look around. He felt vulnerable, out in the open and still so close to Montfermeil, even though the sun had not quite risen yet. The darkness was already lifting; they could make out enough of the terrain to travel, but for a short while yet, they would be difficult to spot.

Should they dare the forest again when the sun rose? They would be hidden there—yet on the other hand, the forest was where Thénardier and Boulatruelle had lost sight of them. Had the two ruffians set up a watch on the road to Bondy? Would it not be safer to travel on north to Vaujours when Thénardier would assume them to turn west for Paris instead?

And yet—Valjean needed to reach Paris. Thénardier was not the only man who was a danger to him. Should they meet soldiers on the road, Javert could demand aid. If he would be believed, for while Valjean indeed looked like a runaway slave in his dirty clothes, Javert was still clad in but a nightshirt and the ill-fitting coat stolen from the stable.

Valjean continued to lead them north, even past sunrise. It might have been six in the morning when they reached another road that crossed the forest. It would not take long to make it through the wood, if they made use of the road—half an hour perhaps if he hurried the mare along, who was still well-rested.

On his own, Valjean would have chosen the forest again. And now that the child was with him, he felt a new sense of urgency. Haste was better than caution in this case, he decided. The more time passed, the higher the chance that more than just Thénardier might take an interest in past events.

With new determination, he took the road to the west, straight into the forest. Soon, the boughs of beeches and conifers blocked out the sun once more, and it grew quiet. Few birds sang here, although they were disturbed by the occasional rustle and creaking in the underbrush. Had he been alone with Cosette, Valjean might have mounted the horse and urged her to go as fast as she could.

Instead, Valjean kept the mare to a walk. At every sound, he tensed. Javert, too, had gone quiet. Just like Valjean, he was watching the road.

Had Javert seen reason at last? The past night had set them together against a common enemy. Even though Valjean was aware that this truce would not endure, he thought that if it came to another confrontation with the villains, Javert would at least try to protect the child—and that was already more than he had hoped for.

They left the forest behind half an hour later. They had encountered no one, but the sense of alarm Valjean felt did not ease. For now they were out in the open once more, traveling on a road that led past meadows and fields, running straight towards the east—into the direction of Paris.

Were Thénardier or Boulatruelle in hiding here? Or had they assumed that Valjean had traveled on through the night, as surely any man fleeing from an attack would? In that case, certainly by now they would be hours ahead on the road that led to Paris.

Or had they, when they could catch neither sight nor news of their group, turned to retrace their steps and keep an eye on the road between them and Montfermeil?

Uncomfortably, Valjean looked around. Perhaps it would be better to take the road that led north and spend a day or two in Mitry. And yet, to do so with Javert in his keeping—who had regained lucidity and would grow stronger by the day, now that the poison had passed from his blood—would mean to invite trouble even worse than Thénardier and the road-mender.

Valjean knew this sort of men well. If it came to it, he might even have to buy his freedom with the three hundred thousand francs that remained in his bag. Later, secretly, he would be able to return to retrieve the other half which he had hidden.

Were he in Javert's power, nothing could possibly buy his freedom. Neither the money, nor his body.

The thought was sobering, accompanied as it was by the memory of Javert pressing him into the straw. To escape the uncomfortable frisson that ran through him, he lengthened his stride. Thénardier and Boulatruelle were only two men, whereas there were all the agents of the state against him as well. Better to deal with the devil he knew.

For several hours, they traveled silently. When there was a choice, Valjean remained on the smaller roads, where they rarely encountered other travelers. Once or twice, Javert might have had a chance to call out to a distant farmer who was working his ox on a field; clad as he was in the dirty, ill-fitting coat, and perhaps considering himself Valjean's prisoner, Javert remained furiously quiet.

It was not until they came to the small settlement of Sevran that things changed. Before them stood a copse of birches. The road they had traveled on curved around that copse, and near the village, it met another road coming from the west, which lead to Bondy, and beyond, Paris. As they drew closer to the village, Valjean watched Javert straighten.

Did Valjean dare to chance a rest? He could make out only a handful of roofs; surely not enough to warrant the presence of an officer of the police. Nevertheless, even though a handful of francs might ensure that their presence was kept a secret, the thought unsettled him. Valjean had half determined to turn away from the houses when in the distance, he could make out the silhouette of two travelers coming from the direction of Paris.

Valjean stiffened. Could it be that this was Thénardier and Boulatruelle? The men were too far to make out details, although it seemed to him that one was broad-shouldered like the road-mender, and the other small and sickly, as the innkeeper had been.

“Give yourself up,” Javert said, quiet triumph in his voice. “Come now, Valjean. If you truly want to keep the child safe—”

“Quick now,” Valjean murmured, his decision made. The old terror was pounding in his blood once more as he led the horse towards the houses rising before them. 

Perhaps they had not been seen yet. Perhaps, even now, there was a chance to trick them...

Valjean led them around the buildings, keeping away from the road that crossed straight through the small settlement. To their right was a field; in front of them, a small river flowed. Beyond the river stood a rickety barn, and there two cows and a small herd of sheep were milling around. Watching over them was a dog and a gray-haired woman washing clothes in the river.

Valjean led the horse through a shallow part of the small stream, slowly approaching the woman, who had risen from her crouch and watched them suspiciously. The dog barked at them. Valjean ignored the noise as he moved closer.

“Good day, Madame,” he said politely. “Have you any gendarmes in this village?”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Javert straighten with surprise.

The woman shook her head, still peering at them with distrust. And she had good reason to—after their flight from the inn, they had to look like unwashed vagabonds, with the exception of Cosette in her black dress.

“We met brigands on the road yesterday,” Valjean said quietly. “Near Montfermeil. Just now, I saw two suspicious men in the distance, coming our way.”

The old woman straightened. She gestured angrily at the dog, who ceased his barking.

“Will you let us hide in your barn until those people have passed?” Valjean reached into his coat and pulled out a franc. Slowly, he held it out; after a moment, the woman snatched it up.

“They'll see the horse if they look into the barn,” she said. “My neighbor has a stable; it is empty. For ten francs, I will feed the child as well and send it back with food for you.”

Valjean hesitated. Cosette was silent, but her fingers had clenched around the mare's mane. “Go with her,” he said gently, and reluctantly, Cosette allowed herself to be lifted off the horse.

“There is a hayloft.” The woman nodded towards the barn. “You can hide up there.”

Valjean had to help Javert dismount. The dog was growling at them as they approached the barn, but the woman remained, speaking sharply to the beast until it had allowed Javert and Valjean past it.

Then she took hold of Cosette's hand and the reins of the horse, leading her back through the shallow part of the river.

Valjean watched until he saw them reach a small house on the other side of the river, the poorest building of the settlement. Next to it, a house stood that was a little larger, with a small garden on one side and a stable leaning against the other. Into this stable, the mare was led; then Cosette was brought into the building, and Valjean turned away at last.

Inside the barn, dust was dancing in the air. The cows and sheep remained outside, where there was grass to graze on. Valjean shifted uncomfortably. The welts on his back were still pulsing with heat at every step he took. Javert watched him, holding on to the ladder that led to the hayloft.

“How much longer will you try to run, I wonder?” Javert said, smiling without fear when Valjean came closer.

Valjean did not lower his gaze. He was tired, his back throbbing with dull pain. He met Javert's eyes frankly.

“Once they have gone—if it even was them—I will take Cosette and travel on. You are well enough now, Inspector.”

Javert's expression did not change. As Valjean looked at Javert, the ache of the welts on his back seemed to intensify, and Valjean shuddered. It was important not to forget that Javert would show him no compassion, should he make a mistake and get himself arrested now. More importantly, Javert would not show Cosette compassion, and Valjean could not abandon her, not when he had already failed to save so many others.

“If you think that I will desist from--”

“I expect nothing,” Valjean said wearily. He moved past Javert, taking hold of the ladder, and began to climb. The motion sent a jolt of pain through his back. Had one of the wounds opened again?

Perhaps this enforced halt was for the best. A few hours of rest would do him good; afterward, when the roads were safe, he would take Cosette and find the nearest town where the coach stopped. While Javert was growing stronger, he could not walk far yet. There would be enough time to make it to Paris before Javert found a garrison.

After a moment, Javert followed him up the ladder. He had to move slowly, but he managed to make his way up without Valjean's help.

It was truly time to move on, Valjean thought, shivering when he remembered Javert's body atop his own in the straw. It was time.


	32. Chapter 32

They waited for several hours inside the barn. A small window allowed air and light into the hayloft, and from it, Valjean watched the outside. No one passed. And in turn, Javert watched Jean Valjean.

Every now and then, an old instinct made Javert clench his hands as he imagined them tighten around Valjean's wrists. It was what these hands were meant to do. And yet, Javert could still feel the weakness in his bones. Climbing the ladder had used up enough of his strength that he had been forced to rest from the exertion; still, he had been furiously pleased. He was regaining his strength. And Jean Valjean was underestimating him if he thought that he could tell Javert his plans for escape and flee from his grasp so easily.

Once more, Valjean turned away from the window. Bales of straw shielded them from view. Even should someone enter the barn, as long no one climbed the ladder, they would be safe from discovery.

Valjean shifted his shoulders with obvious discomfort. There was a frown on his face. With a sudden rush of heat through his veins, Javert remembered how Valjean had looked spread out before him, helpless, every muscle tensed in pain as the lash came down.

Then, he had thought that Valjean knew his place. Now, Valjean walked freely, without a collar around his throat, frankly meeting his eyes, and although he still said _vous_ , it was Valjean who had taken control over their escape.

The awareness was like a niggling itch. Valjean had not killed him, nor abandoned him to the brigands—yet still, the entire endeavor sat ill with Javert. To make common cause with criminals—was that where his folly had led him? He did not even know how much time had passed. Would he return to Montreuil to find that the commissaire had already penned a letter detailing his misconduct to his patron, M. Chabouillet?

Valjean sat down on a bale of straw. He was close enough now that Javert could see him wince. There was sweat on Valjean's brow too, and again he shifted his shoulders.

Javert stared at him. After a moment, Valjean's head turned, as if aware of the heat of his gaze, and their eyes met.

Valjean looked tired. He could not have slept much during the past night—perhaps he had not slept at all.

There were lines around his mouth, and Javert studied them for a moment before he suddenly stood.

“Get up,” he demanded. “Let me look at your back.”

For a moment, Valjean did not move. At last, he hesitantly rose.

“There is no need to,” he began.

Javert scoffed. “I am well aware of that. Take off your shirt.”

Valjean hesitated once more. His expression was unreadable, but Javert refused to look away. At last, moving slowly and with obvious effort, Valjean drew off his shirt.

“It is nothing,” he said again. “Given time, it will heal.”

“Turn around,” Javert commanded.

Valjean let go of the shirt, then slowly moved towards Javert and turned. He was tense, though Javert hardly saw any need for concern, for Javert had no weapon on him—Valjean had made certain of that, after all.

Then he got a good look at Valjean's back and drew in a breath.

“One of the welts is infected,” he said. He drew his thumb along the swollen, red line that crossed Valjean's back. The skin was hot, and he could feel the shudder that ran through Valjean at his touch.

“It is nothing,” Valjean said again even as his shoulders hunched in reaction.

Javert's thumb traveled to where the skin had been broken by the whip and scabbed over. Had the wound opened again during their escape? There was dried blood near the welt. Valjean's skin was even warmer here. When he applied pressure with his thumb, Valjean flinched.

Javert ignored Valjean's swallowed sound of pain and pressed down harder. From beneath the scab, a yellow liquid escaped—and there, against the side of his thumb, he now thought that he felt something hard beneath the skin.

“A splinter,” he said, frowning. For how long had Valjean ignored this? Since the day he had whipped him in the shed?

With sudden clarity, he remembered Valjean's bared chest, Valjean's heart pounding against his palm when he had pushed him down. Valjean had not worn his shirt. Had some splinter or piece of straw found its way into an old wound?

Beneath his hand, Valjean's chest rose and fell with his breaths. Javert looked at the swollen skin. The settlement was small; they would have no doctor here, if he could even convince Valjean to leave their hiding place.

After a moment, Javert held out his hand. “Give me your knife.”

Valjean's shoulders stiffened. For a heartbeat, he did not answer. His breathing was the only sound that filled the quiet barn, and Javert thought again of the way Valjean's heart had pounded against his palm.

Slowly, Valjean moved to where he had left his bag. He did not look at Javert as he drew out a small knife. Javert did not speak; in the sparse sunlight that came in through the window, he watched Valjean, the powerful torso bared to his eyes, crossed with red welts and the pale scars of old punishments.

At last, Valjean returned to where Javert was waiting. Javert gestured towards the window.

“Turn. I need light.”

Quietly, Valjean did as he was bidden. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the knife. For a heartbeat, he did not move.

For some reason he could not explain even to himself, Javert felt no fear as he looked at Valjean's white knuckles clenching around the weapon. Then the knife was released, and Javert took hold of it.

He rested one hand against Valjean's shoulder. The knife was solid in his hand. He curled his fingers around it, still looking at the play of light on Valjean's broad back.

Valjean was very still beneath his touch. Javert contemplated trailing his hand upwards, resting it against his throat just to feel the flutter of his pulse.

Instead, his fingers drew to where Valjean's skin was red and inflamed, and then he raised the knife. Slowly, carefully, he made an incision. A tremor ran through Valjean, but he did not move nor make a sound. From the cut, pus ran.

Javert rested his fingers on either side of the inflamed tissue, and then he pressed down. More pus appeared, and then pink blood—and there, he saw something else appear.

It was the splinter which had caused all this trouble.

“Hold still,” he said. With Valjean's skin slippery with blood, he had feared that the splinter might escape him—but he managed to grab hold of it, and then pull it free. It was perhaps the length of his nail, a small, innocuous piece of wood, and he stared at it before he let it drop to the ground.

Valjean was breathing shallowly. Again Javert raised his hand to the cut he had made. With his fingers, he squeezed again until the blood ran free and dark.

“There,” he said very softly. His heart was racing in his chest. His mouth was dry. The task was done; he should have stepped away, or used the weapon to restore the proper order between them.

Instead, he reached out to press his hand against Valjean's shoulder. Slowly, he drew it downward. Against his palm, he felt the flexing of muscle. Valjean's skin was warm. Valjean was so tense that his muscles were hard as stone. Beneath his fingertips, old scars and smooth skin alternated.

He drew his hand further down, trailing past the small of Valjean's back. Touching Valjean was like touching a statue: one of the bodies of Greek heroes past come to life beneath his fingers, a son of Zeus carved from flesh instead of marble.

Valjean had pushed down his braces to pull off his shirt. His pants sat low on his hips, and when Javert pushed them further down, they dropped easily.

Valjean drew in a sudden breath. Impassive, Javert's hand continued its exploration downward, curving around a hard buttock.

Everything was silent in the barn. Valjean stood still, frozen, the image of a statue of a demigod. Save for the heat of his skin, he could have been Hercules carved to adorn the Luxembourg or the gardens of the king.

Slowly, Javert's thumb traced along the valley of a tense muscle, like a man might touch the haunches of a horse in admiration. In his other hand, he still held the knife. Possibility weighed heavily on him.

For all that the tables had been turned and turned again, for this one moment, it seemed as if order itself had become unmoored, and he and Valjean drifted in a mist of possibility. With the knife in his hand, he could force Valjean to surrender himself. He could raise it to Valjean's throat, if he pleased, and end the man's rebellion.

All of his life, Javert had walked the straight path of justice—but now, for one short moment, it was as if the clouds had parted and the sun had suddenly blinded him, all paths vanishing in this mist of what-could-be.

His heartbeat was echoing in his ears. His mouth was dry.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Javert stepped to the side and placed the knife down on a bale of straw. He could not say why he did it. All thought had deserted him, and there was nothing but the awareness of strong, hard muscle submitting to his touch.

Valjean did not move when Javert returned, but Javert could hear the sound of his breathing, which now seemed to fill the quiet barn. Again Javert raised a hand to Valjean's back, tracing a line next to where he had cut open the inflamed welt.

“This will leave a scar,” Javert said, his voice strangely rough in his own ears. “But then, you have no need to charm a woman, do you?”

Another shudder ran through Valjean. Heat surged through Javert. His hand slid around Valjean's hip, and then his fingers closed once more around the familiar weight of Valjean's balls. Had someone asked him why he did it, he would have claimed that he sought to assert dominance over Valjean once more—but the truth was that at that moment, his mind was perfectly blank, and his fingers did not cruelly tighten.

A soft, wounded sound escaped Valjean. Javert traced over the vulnerable globes with the pad of his thumb while Valjean shivered. Within Javert, a sudden, fierce satisfaction began to well up—the awareness that he could apply pressure if he wanted was heavy and warm, and hearing Valjean's pained groan would no doubt be pleasing after the events of the past few days.

Instead, seemingly by their own volition, his fingers gently fondled the testicles as if to familiarize himself once more with their size and weight. His thumb rubbed along where the heavy balls had been marked by a welt not long ago; another shudder ran through Valjean, and Javert leaned even closer, until he could speak into Valjean's ear.

A million thoughts ran through his head. _Presented with the choice between these and the girl—how would Valjean choose?_ And given the size and weight of what he was cradling, Valjean must have missed the bagne. _When was the last time another touched these, just as Javert was touching now?_

Instead, his tightened his fingers just enough to feel the testicles strain against taut skin. Heat flared again as he thought of the sight of them bruised and swollen, the red mark the lash had left as vivid as the brand.

He was so close to Valjean that his lips nearly brushed his hair; when he inhaled, all he could smell was Valjean's sweat and the dust of the hayloft. Sweat was beading on Valjean's nape where before, the collar had rested.

Once again Javert's hand moved, and he had to swallow as his fingers lightly brushed the damning evidence of Valjean's hardening shaft. His lips parted as he searched for something to say—but as much as he tried, his mind was blank.

Valjean's prick was hot against the back of his hand. Valjean did not move away. All the same, Javert suddenly remembered what Valjean had promised earlier—that he would leave, and that their paths would diverge here.

And if Valjean truly managed to escape in Paris—what then?

For a moment, a darkness yawned before him, an abyss threatening to swallow all reason. To let Valjean go, when Valjean belonged to him! When his skin was marked by Javert's brand, more—when Valjean had made him go through so much trouble, when in a fit of insanity, Javert had even endangered the position that made him who he was! And should Javert rebel against authority now, when he had served it all his life, and had found that pleasing?

Still, for that one, frozen moment when he stood pressed against Valjean's naked body, feeling the heat of Valjean's arousal, with the promise of possibility still thrumming in the air like a distant bell, he could not help but remember the moment when Valjean had jumped out of the window with Javert clinging to his back, or that fateful moment when he had sucked the poison from Javert's thigh.

There had been a hundred chances for Valjean to leave with his freedom, and had he allowed Javert to die, Valjean would have been able to buy forged papers and feel secure with the knowledge that no one would come after him.

Javert's chest was tight. Between his own legs, arousal was throbbing heavy and low. He remembered Valjean's bare, damp skin shuddering beneath his touch, the soft sound Valjean had made when he had cut into his skin. It seemed to him then as if they had hung frozen in time, held in some giant scale that did not tip to either side—a strange moment that already seemed unreal, for no man in Valjean's position could trust Javert with a weapon.

Then the moment passed, and regretfully, Javert took a step back. Only now did he become aware of how labored his breathing was. For a moment, he felt a sudden abhorrence at the eagerness that still throbbed in his blood.

Then Valjean's shoulders hunched. A shudder ran through the powerful body, and he bent down to quickly pull up his trousers once more, granting Javert a short glimpse of the robust haunches and the erect member between his thighs.

Javert's throat was dry as he contemplated what he had so often threatened. To mutilate this—he had no eye for art, yet even so, all of a sudden it seemed as sacrilegious as a drunk student mutilating a statue in a park.

“You should leave off the shirt.” Javert's voice was rough when he forced himself to speak. “Let the wound breathe.”

Valjean remained silent, although he did not pull on the shirt again. Instead, he settled down on the straw near the window—but not without slowly taking hold of the knife once more, and returning it to his bag.

Javert did not know what to say. The arousal did not abate; his fingers still twitched with the memory of Valjean's powerful body holding still for him. So he stood and watched, until at last, after an hour might have passed, Valjean at last turned his head, and their eyes met.

Neither spoke.


	33. Chapter 33

They waited for several tense hours. Every now and then, Valjean awkwardly shifted his shoulders. When the incision had scabbed over, he pulled on his shirt once more. He could not deny that it was a relief; with the cut drained and the splinter pulled out, the ache was now that of a healing wound, and no longer the hot, tense pulse of infection.

At last, the woman returned with Cosette, bringing the food she had promised: bread, and pig's feet boiled in wine. Together, Javert and Valjean descended from the hayloft. Still silent, they ate, then Valjean surveyed the horizon. Was it safe to travel on? Or would it perhaps not be a better choice to spend the night in this small settlement?

“I saw the men you spoke of,” the woman said abruptly. “I did not like their looks.” The gaze with which she looked her guests up and down said that she thought much the same of them.

“A broad, strong man and a thin, sickly-looking one?” Valjean asked quietly.

“As you say, monsieur.” Her expression did not change. “I saw them walk down the road. It was hours ago; they must be in Montfermeil by now.”

“And you did not speak to them?”

She shook her head. “Nor saw them stop. Even if they did, no one in the village knows you are hiding out here. Unless someone saw you approach.”

Valjean considered that answer. Of course, someone might have spied them... but in that case, surely Thénardier and Boulatruelle would have paid them a visit already.

There was the sound of thunder in the distance, and Valjean raised his eyes to the sky once more. Dark clouds could be seen on the horizon. He gave Cosette a considering look.

At any other time, he would have offered the woman another ten francs to let them spend the night. And yet, to spend another night close to Javert...

He was not afraid. He was stronger than Javert. And in this little settlement, Javert, who looked as much like a runaway slave as Valjean did, would find no support to take possession of him once more.

And yet the memory of Javert's touch still burned, and with it came as always other, older memories. He could not stay. It was impossible.

“We will leave as soon as the storm has passed,” he said softly. “Thank you for your assistance, Madame.”

“I can prepare some food for you to take along,” she offered. “The child may stay inside while it rains.”

Valjean gratefully inclined his head and pressed another five-franc coin into her hand. Javert made a soft, derisive sound and turned to climb the ladder. He was still favoring one leg. Perhaps tomorrow, he would find a farmer who drove a cart to the nearest town, and there, Javert would find a station-house or soldiers to send after him.

But by then, it would be too late, and Valjean and Cosette would be safe.

From the barn, Valjean watched as the girl returned with the woman. There was smoke coming from the tiny house's chimney now. Cosette would be warm and safe while the storm passed them by—and then, they would leave and go to Paris, even if they had to ride all through the night.

With another look at the fields surrounding them, Valjean finally turned and followed Javert up the ladder. There had been no sign of Thénardier and Boulatruelle, and the woman did not have the looks of someone who would betray them—especially since she seemed to have realized that her guests were willing to pay, and Thénardier had nothing but lies and promises to offer.

In the dusty hayloft, Javert was leaning against a bale of straw, calmly watching as Valjean pulled himself up onto the platform. For a moment, as Valjean rose to his knees, their eyes met; this time, it was Valjean who had to look away, and Valjean whose face flushed with heat.

He could not understand why he had done it. He should never have trusted Javert with a knife. Worse: he should never have allowed Javert to lay hands on him. Now, whenever Javert looked at him with those impenetrable, dark eyes, Valjean could see what Javert saw: Jean Valjean naked and erect as Javert touched him.

“You can stay here tonight,” Valjean said softly. “You will be warm enough. I have no doubt that tomorrow, you will manage to find assistance.”

Javert's head turned towards him. Outside, the light was dimming as the storm clouds quickly approached. In the gloom, he could not make out Javert's expression.

“And you will leave? Do you think it is so easy, Jean Valjean?”

No, Valjean thought, it had not been easy at all, and he did not believe that this would change.

After a moment, Javert rose and slowly came towards him. “Nothing will change,” Javert murmured.

For once, there was no rage in his voice. He stopped before Valjean, so close that he could touch. Valjean met his gaze, even as Javert reached out and pressed his hand against his chest.

“You are mine, even if you run. You will be mine again, no matter how far you run. Why, then? Surely you must know how this will end.”

In chains and pain and loneliness, Valjean thought, allowing himself to acknowledge the truth of Javert's words. Should he be arrested, that was what would happen. And surely Javert would be more careful the next time. There would be additional chains, additional shame, and less of a chance for escape. 

Even so, there was the child. There was no choice now. He would take any chance at all to make his way to freedom with her.

“No man is meant to belong to another,” Valjean said. In his chest, something was twisting, a pressure that grew as Javert's hand clenched around his shirt, tightening his grip on him.

A small smile spread across Javert's face. In the gloom, his eyes were sharp and focused, as though Valjean were a mystery Javert had all but solved.

“But I think, Jean Valjean,” he said softly, “you belong to those men who find enjoyment in belonging to another.”

Valjean could feel the beating of his heart in his chest, every thud like the tolling of a great bell that reverberated through him. Javert was still staring at him, too close for comfort, although his grip was light enough not to be a threat.

Again Valjean thought of the warmth of Boucard's embrace , those few moments when the darkness around him fell away. His tongue was thick, his chest so tight that he could not breathe. He swallowed, Javert's eyes still on him.

Had it not been Javert but Boucard with him in this barn—would he have succumbed? Shame twisted through Valjean as he thought that he would have, that even after these long years, the memory of those rough hands on him and the warm breath on his neck had not dimmed, that he was weary and desperate and afraid and would have done anything for a moment of comfort and a kind touch.

Javert pressed even closer. Outside, the wind had begun to rise. From the roof came a creaking sound, and below, the animals came seeking shelter in the barn. The gloom of the hayloft had deepened as outside, dark clouds covered the sky.

Slowly, Javert's hand began to relax against his chest, releasing his shirt to press flat against his breast where Valjean's heart was beating—where Javert's initial was irrevocably branded into his skin. Slowly, Javert's hand began to move, stroking his skin as Valjean stood frozen.

“Even if you run, you will be mine again,” Javert declared in a low voice.

Outside, the first bolt of lightning lit the sky in a flash of glaring light. For a heartbeat, Valjean saw Javert's features lit. He should have looked monstrous—here was the man who had bound and whipped him, who had chained him, bought him like a beast.

Instead, Valjean found himself shocked to the core, for the expression in Javert's eyes seemed all of a sudden intimately familiar. There was none of the rage or derision he had expected—but there was a hunger that he recognized.

Javert's eyes were alight with an emotion he had last seen when he had spent a night in Gilbert's arms—that final night before Gilbert had been released. The next day, Valjean had been chained to a new arrival in the bagne, whom Valjean had been content to ignore as he rested on his planks at night. He had not known whether he was enraged or relieved, and the many nights that loomed before him suddenly seemed all the darker and colder with no arms to embrace him, and no voice to whisper his name harsh with need.

Nearly twenty years had passed since that night.

Outside, thunder rolled, and then another bolt of lightning lit the sky. In that eyeblink of stark illumination, Valjean could see that Javert's pupils were wide, his eyes dark and his nostrils flared. Javert's breath was coming quickly. He had not lowered his hand; Valjean's nipple was taut and aching once more, and his pulse throbbed, a confusing, fast rhythm as for a moment he remembered the heat of skin against his own, the comfort of hands on him.

“Will you chain me again?” Valjean demanded, his voice rough as he desperately sought to remind himself of the truth of their relationship. “Will you beat me, should you catch me?”

“I should have you gelded,” Javert murmured, so close that Valjean could feel the heat of his breath as he spoke. “Without all that crude virility, you would be less trouble. You would not lose out on much—would you?”

Valjean swallowed, but found he could not speak. The heat of Javert's hand was scalding his skin even through the fabric of the shirt. The low throb of his pulse had intensified, gathered hot and low in his stomach. At Javert's threat, his balls ached, heavy and full beneath his legs ever since Javert's touch hours ago.

Even now, despite the horror of the mutilation, a part of him could not help but think that perhaps, Javert was right. To be rid of these unwanted memories and desires that he had thought long since left behind—to be rid of this strange power Javert had over him, where terror and fear conspired against him to have his body rouse at a touch which he knew was meant to shame... Would that not be a relief?

“But the truth is, Jean Valjean,” Javert continued, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper nearly swallowed by the sound of the rain pouring down onto the roof, “the truth is that you are mine. All of you is mine. Those heavy balls that cause you so much trouble are mine, just as much as your arms and your legs that lift carts and rocks. If you run now, you will be caught eventually. You know it. You will be brought to me, and I will beat you again. I will not have you gelded, but I will beat your balls, too. It was but one lash last time. Next time, we will see how many you can take. Now, do you still want to run?”

Valjean swallowed thickly. “Why?” he asked at last. “I was yours. You had me chained in your bedroom. You could have had whatever you wanted.”

“I want nothing,” Javert replied instantly. “I want an end of all rebellion. And you have rebelled, from the very first moment. What I want is for you to accept the truth: that you are mine, a slave of the state, a criminal.”

Valjean's mouth was dry. The storm was directly above them now; every flash of lightning was accompanied by ear-shattering thunder. “Is that,” he began, his voice shaky even though he had not backed away, “is that why you touched me earlier?”

Another crash of thunder resounded, the wooden shutters of the window rattling. Below them, one of the sheep let out a frightened bleat.

In the flashes of light provided by the raging storm, Javert looked like a ghost. His face was pale, his eyes wide and dark, burning with an inner fever. At Valjean's word, his hand had ceased its motion; now his fingers tightened once more in Valjean's shirt as Javert pressed forward until he was so close that their lips nearly met.

“You,” Javert said, all the more frightening for how quiet his voice was. “You were the one who was affected. Do you think I have forgotten that? You were the one who offered yourself to me earlier. How many men have you been with, I wonder? How many, Jean Valjean?”

The relentless drum of the rain onto the roof above them nearly drowned out the sound of the wind. Valjean knew that Javert was still weakened—that even at Javert's strongest, he would have been able to push Javert's hand away and descend the ladder. And yet, for some reason, he found himself frozen, staring into Javert's eyes with the heat of his breath on his lips, so close that he thought he could feel the angry drum of Javert's heart against his own.

“Four,” Valjean said softly. “Four men they chained me to in those first years in Toulon. Older, experienced bagnards. Is that not how it is? Is that not wanted? Why else do such a thing, Inspector? You treat men like animals, and then you wonder why they turn into beasts. You encourage men to find what comfort they can with another because it makes them more docile, because you think these bonds, more than the chains, keep one from attempting to escape—and yet at the same time, one is derided for accepting such comfort in the darkness, for clinging to the only kindness one has known in nineteen years of torment. Four men, Inspector. Four criminals, to whom hands just like yours chained me, never asking for my opinion on such things.”

The hayloft smelled of damp earth and ozone. Outside, bolts of lightning crossed the sky, accompanied by the roll of thunder. Inside, in the gloom beneath the roof, Javert had listened to his speech with eyes that came alight with fury.

“And do you dare to rebel still,” Javert said, his voice thick with an emotion that could only be rage, “do you dare to blame me, Javert, for what shameful passions you succumbed to—do you dare to look me in the eye and declare that the state, that Authority itself made you submit to those brutes when we both know very well that there never was a stronger man in the bagne, that you call comfort what in truth is nothing more than the basest of desires, that with every moment spent in my possession you have not sought to draw me into that mire with you--”

Again a crash shook the barn. Below, the dog had begun to bark. The window was still creaking, and now a strong gust of wind blew it open so that cold air sizzling with electricity blew inside. Javert was close, so close that all Valjean could see were his gleaming eyes in that ghostly face towering above him, Javert's hand still clenched around his shirt. Javert's lips had drawn back, baring his teeth. Once more a flash of lightning lit the hayloft, so that for a heartbeat Javert seemed a wolf lunging at him to devour him.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Valjean became aware of a movement. 

Again lightning flashed. In the heartbeat of glaring light, the hayloft was illuminated. An instant later, shadows filled the room once more, but the blinding light had burned the image of what he had seen into the darkness behind Valjean's eyelids: the white outline of a man climbing in through the window.

Thunder shook the barn, the drum of rain increasing in volume, and Valjean lunged for the bag that had rested unguarded on a bale of straw near the window.

He reached it a second too late. When the next flash lit the room, he found himself face to face with no other than Thénardier, who was holding the bag clutched against his chest, a knife out in his hand as he glared at Valjean from narrowed eyes.

Another crash behind him made Valjean turn. To his shock, he found Javert surrounded by two shadowy figures—by the broad shoulders, he recognized the road-mender who had attacked them before. In the flashes of light, he saw another knife gleam. Behind him, he could hear Thénardier scuttle backward—no doubt with the bag full of money still in his hand. In a moment, he would have reached the window.

Before him, Javert had backed into a wall of stacked bales, facing two strangers armed with knives. Valjean started forward even as Javert turned his head, his eyes widening as he looked past Valjean.

“Thénardier,” Javert called out in rage.

“Shut up, _Inspector_ ,” Boulatruelle said, his knife menacingly raised. “You've led us on quite a chase. But it ends here.”

Valjean had no plan. He had hoped that it would be possible to wrest the weapon from the road-mender and his companion—but just at that moment, there was a cry outside. It was the voice of Thénardier raising an alarm. While the brigand by Boulatruelle's side immediately took a step backward, turning towards the ladder, the road-mender lunged forward in enraged determination.

Valjean, who had been rushing towards Boulatruelle to wrest the knife from him, changed direction at the very last moment. He hit Javert a heartbeat before the knife slashed through the air. There was a short, bright second of pain—but now both Valjean and Javert were falling, toppling down into the straw.

Below them, there were shouts and the angry barking of a dog. Heavy feet were coming up the ladder—several pairs of feet, by the sound of it, men rushing up into the hayloft. “Halt!” the booming voice of a stranger called out. “You are arrested!”

Valjean blinked. He felt a dull pain. Below him, Javert was resting. Valjean had landed on top of him, his cheek pressed to Javert's, Javert's whiskers rough against his skin. He could feel the rise and fall of Javert's chest against his own with every breath he took.

Blinking again, Valjean tried to raise his head. Then Javert's eyes opened. And with the next flash that lit the dark sky, Valjean saw that there was blood on Javert's face.


	34. Chapter 34

Slowly, blood was welling up from a shallow cut. Javert followed its trail with his eyes, hypnotized by the motion. The crimson drop ran from the pale brow down across a cheek, nearly reaching the curves of the chin before the force of gravitation was too strong and it fell, drop after drop, dripping right onto Javert's lips.

The impact had stolen the breath from Javert's lungs. Valjean was heavy atop him, the pressure on his chest making it near impossible to breathe deeply. Dimly, Javert was still aware of the danger and of the commotion that now began to play out in the barn.

Thunder and lightning came to a crescendo in the sky as within, cries resounded and handcuffs were fastened. Yet all Javert could see was the face of Jean Valjean, pale in the gloom, dripping blood from the cut where Boulatruelle's knife had nicked him when Valjean had pushed Javert out of the way.

Javert licked his lips. His tongue tasted the iron tang of blood; confused, he blinked. He raised one hand to Valjean's face, gently brushing a fingertip along the line the knife had drawn. Valjean was staring at him, his eyes wide. He did not move, and Javert did not pull back.

That was how they were found moments later, Javert's hand still gently pressed to Valjean's face.

The bleeding had slowed already; even so, as hands tore them apart and pulled them up, he could not stop looking at Valjean. In his chest, turmoil was threatening to break free. He could not make sense of it. For a moment, it seemed to Javert that they were not in a hayloft, but standing before some great precipice; that the smallest motion would cast him into the great abyss below; that this storm that gained in volume all around them would tear him apart should he falter; that there was no escape, no shelter from this storm; that surely this precipice upon which he stood would crumble beneath his feet and fall into the darkness below together with him any moment.

Through all this turmoil, Valjean's eyes never left his. There was neither fear nor anger in them; Valjean was calm, untouched by the maelstrom within Javert's mind. As he looked at him, for the first time in his life, Javert thought that he might not know Jean Valjean at all, that it was impossible to know this man, that he was more monstrous than Javert had ever dared to believe and at the same time, better than a man like him had any right to be.

“What is this then?” a man demanded as Javert was roughly hustled to the side. “Another viper from Boulatruelle's nest? Or the victims who gathered them all in place for us?”

Shaken, Javert licked his lips again. His eyes sought Valjean once more—but Valjean had lowered his head at last, the very picture of submission as he stood quietly in the dark hayloft, arms behind his back with two gendarmes by his side.

Javert took a deep breath. He realized now that his own arms were held in a similar position, encircled by handcuffs, and that the man in front of him was a gendarme as well.

A lamp was carried into the hayloft. Javert straightened and at last faced the man who was revealed to be the captain of the squad by his uniform.

“Inspector Javert, of Montreuil-sur-Mer,” Javert said, well aware that he looked little better than a beggar. “Boulatruelle and the inn-keeper Thénardier attacked us.”

“Ha!” the captain exclaimed. “Now that is a fine tale. We've made quite a catch today, it seems—Boulatruelle and his friends as well as an inspector come all the way from Pas-de-Calais.”

There was an entire company of gendarmes that had descended onto the barn with drawn swords while the storm was raging all around them. It was still raining heavily; as the men brought them downstairs where the other brigands were under careful watch, thunder rolled again, although the sound seemed more distant now.

“I have no papers on me,” Javert said with quiet dignity. “The road-mender stabbed me a few days ago, and we sought refuge in an inn in Montfermeil.”

“The inn of a certain Thénardier?” the captain asked, surveying the group of handcuffed men.

“Just so,” Javert said. “Boulatruelle knew that we carried money with us—a large sum. Six hundred thousand francs, which belong to the state. One night ago, Boulatruelle came to the inn. When the villains thought us asleep, they came into our room to kill us in our sleep. We escaped out of the window, and they have trailed us ever since. That is why we hid in the hayloft.”

“This tale gets more and more interesting,” the captain said, showing his teeth. “Six hundred thousand francs, you say? A bold claim!”

“Money that belongs to the state,” Javert said doggedly. “The Assizes at Arras, to be exact. It was in the bag Thénardier stole—let us see it then, and you will know I speak the truth. The fiend went out of the window—”

“Where my men were waiting.” The gendarme stroked his mustache, quite obviously pleased with himself. “We have been looking for these brigands for many weeks. At last, the road to Bondy will be safe once more.” Then he nodded at one of his men, who brought Valjean's bag forward.

“We took this off the inn-keeper, sir,” the lieutenant said.

The captain stepped forward and opened the bag. After a moment of silence, he drew back, eyes wide and mustache quivering with emotion.

“My God, you spoke the truth!” he said, his smile fierce. “What a catch. Lieutenant, bring me that inn-keeper.”

Through the lifting rain, Javert could now see that there were gendarmes outside the barn as well, surrounding more of the brigands. Had their approach to the settlement been observed after all? Had Thénardier and Boulatruelle continued on their way back to Montfermeil, but only to recruit a group of the road-mender's accomplices and return under cover of the storm?

A commotion arose outside all of a sudden. Instinctively, Javert reached for his gun when he heard the sound of a scream, but was brought up short by the iron clasping his wrists. He could not make out the source of the scuffle, but near the barn's open door, he could now see several of the gendarmes engaged in a brawl with the surrounded and formerly so docile brigands.

With all attention on the tumult outside, he almost did not see the movement behind him. Some flash of motion behind him caused him to turn his head—and there, almost invisible in the darkness beneath the barn's roof, Boulatruelle clung to the ladder that led to the hayloft. Even though his hands were cuffed, he had managed to climb it—perhaps hoping to make his escape through the window onto the roof.

“The road-mender!” Javert called out grimly, cursing the shackles that kept him from going after the villain himself. “On the ladder! He's trying to get away!”

At his shout, three of the gendarmes broke away from the struggle to pursue Boulatruelle into the hayloft. By the time they reached the ladder, it was too late; Boulatruelle was gone from Javert's sight, doubtlessly making his way towards the window.

Above, they could hear the sound of boots hastily following. Then, amidst the shouts, there was a shot—and a heartbeat later, something heavy hit the ground outside the barn.

Javert grit his teeth in frustration. It was the first time in his life that handcuffs kept him from joining the hunt, and for a moment, a rare unease rose up as well. It seemed to him all of a sudden as though there was but a thin veil that kept Javert, the upstanding inspector, from the man he would have been had he followed in his father's footsteps. To find himself shackled and interrogated, to conjure up suspicion and mockery—all these things brought forth the old loathing for the criminal class he had turned from. And yet, for the first time, this feeling was entwined with shame, for he should not be here, handcuffed like a suspect. What had put him onto this path?

“The road-mender is dead, sir,” one of the men breathlessly reported a moment later.

“And the inn-keeper?”

There was a moment of silence, then another gendarme broke away from the group of brigands outside, who, having been subdued by the generous use of cudgels, were now awaiting their fate, beaten and handcuffed.

“Sir, he has vanished.”

The gendarme's jaw tightened. “Lieutenant, take three men and go to Montfermeil, as quickly as you can manage,” he commanded. “And you—count the money.”

In silence, Javert watched as another gendarme went through the bundles of bank-bills in Valjean's bag. Next to him, Valjean stood, his eyes lowered, shoulders bent in weary surrender to his fate. He had not protested or sought to break free; instead, he was the very picture of surrender.

That, too, sat uneasily on Javert, for some strange reason he could not quite put his finger on. The wound at Valjean's brow had stopped bleeding, at least. Surely now there would be no reason for the gendarmes to detain them for longer than the time it would take to prove Javert's identity.

Once more Javert thought that he should feel triumph. Had Valjean not all but gloated about his escape plans? And had Javert not told him what he would do to him in turn, once Valjean was in his power again?

Now order had been restored, for the most part. In a day or two, Javert would be free, and Valjean would be who he had always been: Javert's possession.

The thought was not as satisfying as it should be, here in this barn where Valjean had stood naked and vulnerable before him, with no chain on him to force the surrender to Javert's hands.

“Sir. There are about three hundred thousand francs in the bag,” the gendarme declared after long minutes, his eyes wide at the sum he held in his hands.

Shocked, Javert's head shot around at this declaration. The gendarme showed no sign of anger, but his voice was flat with fury when he spoke next.

“Dubois, Bertrand, Paquet. Go after that inn-keeper as well. Make haste. Get to Montfermeil before he does; if you do, keep watch on his family.”

“Thénardier. He took half the money and ran.” Javert bared his teeth, remembering the cudgel coming down onto the pillow where his head had rested minutes earlier. “That villain.”

The gendarme's nostrils flared as he turned at last and surveyed them. “If you speak the truth,” the man said, his eyes still dark with anger at the way his men had been tricked, “this is quite a plot indeed. Until I can verify this tale, you're coming with us.”

Several hours later, Javert found himself in a cell together with Jean Valjean.

Javert was little pleased by this development. For the first time in his life, he found himself behind bars, and he had little like for that peculiar experience: to look at the world through bars was unsettling, a world turned upside down, for Javert had so far been irreproachable in everything he did.

Shame and fury took their turns, yet he ruthlessly squashed both emotions. There was nothing to do but wait, he told himself. The gendarmes who had arrested them had no way to ascertain that he had spoken the truth; to be cuffed and arrested was a mere formality, and in truth Javert should commend the captain for a job well done, for surely this was a sign of a man who took his duty seriously.

Valjean had been silent, which in turn pleased and enraged Javert. Those emotions as well he chose to ignore. When he turned his head to look at Valjean, Javert could not help but remember the sight of blood trickling down Valjean's face. He could still taste it on his lips—and then, unbidden, memories returned of Valjean's head between his thighs, those lips swollen and red as Valjean looked up at him.

To combat these thoughts, Javert rose and paced the length of the small cell once more, pressing his face against the bars in impatience. How long could it take to verify his identity? At last, after Javert began to fear that he would suffer the indignity of spending the night in the cell like a common criminal, he could hear voices outside, and then the door opened.

In strode an imposing man with gray hair and sharp eyes, bearing himself with dignity, even though his fine coat was as out of place in this shabby jail at the outskirts of Paris than Javert's presence behind the bars.

This man was Javert's patron Chabouillet, and after a brief moment of relief, Javert felt a sharp pang of pain that this man, who had given him his trust years ago, was now repaid for his support by the sight of his protégé in the rags of a brigand.

“Javert!” Chabouillet exclaimed in surprise. “My God, it's all true then. I never would have believed such a tale, but with the report of the money and the description I received, I had to come and see for myself.”

“You know this man, monsieur?” the captain inquired respectfully.

“He has spoken the truth; that is Javert, Inspector in Montreuil-sur-Mer. I can vouch for him.”

The cell door was unlocked, Javert's shackles opened. As he stepped before his patron, Javert had to ruthlessly squash the humiliated anger that rose up in him at the state he was in. It would not do either to blame Valjean for causing him to face his superior in such disarray, for in truth, it was not Valjean who had forced them to jump out of the window.

“Monsieur.” Javert straightened. “I can only apologize for this state you find me in—”

“Nonsense, Javert.” Chabouillet's elegantly beringed hand brushed his apology away with an expansive gesture. “I have been briefed by the captain—you have done the impossible and retrieved the fortune which had vanished from Laffitte?”

“The inn-keeper ran off with half the sum, monsieur,” Javert said and bowed his head. “Again, I can only offer my apologies. I could not go after him, and—”

“No, no. No more of that, Javert; good God, man, from what I hear you were wounded and under attack, and without your gun. It was hardly your responsibility in that situation—especially when by all accounts, that inn-keeper was surrounded by a squad of gendarmes.”

The captain, who had opened the door to release Javert, stiffened at the slight, but did not speak; just as Javert, he had to be aware that the reproach was well-deserved. After a moment, Chabouillet's expression softened. He took a step forward to rest his hand on Javert's shoulder.

“Well done, Javert,” he spoke with pride. “I have to admit, when I first heard rumors of your rash purchase in Toulon, I feared you might have gone mad. I should have known—where the Assizes could not bring forth even a hint of the fortune, you thought it was your duty to get to the bottom of the mystery, and so purchased the very man who caused such disruption.”

Javert, who had spent long years striving to show himself worthy of his patron's trust in him, and who had yearned just as long to hear such words of praise, now found his tongue heavy at what seemed a grave untruth all of a sudden. Why _had_ he bought Jean Valjean? To uphold justice—or so he had told himself then. To get to the bottom of the mystery, he had claimed when he had made the decision to turn around and travel to Montfermeil.

And yet, now that every moment in the man's presence brought with it an indescribable maelstrom of emotions he dared not name, Javert feared that all these very sensible reasons Chabouillet had listed would crumble away like the lies they were, revealing the deepest secrets of his soul beneath, naked and vulnerable beneath the penetrating eyes of the world.

Thankfully, fate spared him the lie of having to agree with Chabouillet's assessment, for at that moment, his patron turned away from him to move towards the bars.

“Jean Valjean,” Chabouillet murmured slowly, giving the convict who still sat on a bench at the back of the cell a thoughtful look. “The story of Madeleine aroused quite some interest in the papers. And this is the man himself...”

Valjean's head had risen at the address. Javert found that he was staring. He could not look away: even now, with his patron standing next to him and with his praise warming his chest, the sight of Jean Valjean stirred something inside Javert that was only in part the sharp, fierce gloating of the hunter.

For even now, his eyes sought out the thin line where a knife meant for Javert had cut Valjean's skin. Once more he felt the warmth of Valjean's body against his own and remembered Valjean's lips sucking the poison from his thigh.

He took half a step backward as if to escape from the onslaught of those images. The sight of Jean Valjean in chains was familiar—it should have pleased him. What, then, had caused this strange cataclysm? He could no longer face the man without feeling that something profound had become unstable, as though the shoulders of Atlas himself had suddenly begun to tremble, and Javert could only observe the abyss opening before him with bewilderment.

“A strange thing,” Chabouillet said thoughtfully. “But in the end, you were proven right. Well, you are to be commended, Javert, although none of us could understand your reasoning before. I shall inform the commissaire in Montreuil, of course. I do not know how long the captain will need you—and then, of course, there is the matter of the money, which will have to go to Arras.”

Javert had half decided to overcome his shame and ask his patron for a change of clothes, but then bit back the words. The gendarmes would surely be able to find him an old pair of trousers and a coat, if they wanted him to testify against the brigands. In any case, he still had a perfectly serviceable set of clothes left in Thénardier's inn. Although the villain and his family had abandoned the place, escaping the men sent after him, surely the gendarmes still guarding the tavern could be persuaded to return Javert's clothes.

“Monsieur,” Jean Valjean said.

Javert's head rose sharply. Lost in his thoughts, he had missed that Valjean had risen and stepped towards the bars. Now, disregarding the presence of Chabouillet, he stood in front of Javert, his face pale and his eyes wide as his hands rose to clench around the bars.

“Monsieur, please. Tell me; what will happen to Cosette?”


	35. Chapter 35

At Valjean's words, Javert looked taken aback. The man next to Javert was still watching him; Valjean ignored him with the desperation of one who knew all too well that his fate was held in the hand of one man alone.

And that man was Javert. 

Perhaps Valjean should have been terrified at the change in power. To be in the hands of Javert once more, after what had come to pass between them! Should he not be afraid, especially considering Javert's threat in the hayloft?

And yet, all these things were easy to bear. Valjean had known pain before; he would survive it again. But to have freedom snatched from his grasp when it had been so close! Had he left earlier, he and Cosette could be free now. Had he abandoned Javert at any point, he and the child could be safely hidden away in one of Paris' many old tenements.

Instead, he was in chains once more—and, worst of all, Cosette was with them, and her fate was out of his hands.

“The child is here,” the captain said when Javert at last turned away from Valjean. “What's her role in this tale?”

Valjean swallowed. The eyes of Javert's superior were still on him. What did Valjean have to bargain with now? There was the half of the money he had hidden away again—but as long as these men believed that Thénardier had stolen it, Valjean still had a chance of breaking free and returning to the forest of Montfermeil.

Javert scoffed. “She's his responsibility. Or so he claims. More likely, she is his. Her mother was a prostitute. She left the child with those inn-keepers.”

“The inn-keepers are gone,” Chabouillet said. “And a galley-slave can be no one's guardian.” 

“We'll take care of it, if you want,” the captain offered. “I'll have her brought to the hospice.”

A jolt ran through Valjean. If Cosette was sent away, how would he find her?

He turned his head to look at Javert, his heart hammering in his chest, expecting the usual derision—but Javert had been watching him all alone with a dark and unreadable expression. Now, as their eyes met, Valjean's breath stuck in his throat at the thought of Cosette torn from him when he had come so close to fulfilling his promise.

Javert's eyes narrowed, and then he turned away. Sick with dread, for he knew that his pleas would be of no use, but too stricken not to try, Valjean opened his mouth to protest.

“No.”

To Valjean's surprise, it was Javert who spoke first.

“No. I have the letters that declare him responsible for her. The child is his. And he is mine. Let's have this settled once and for all. I'll take the girl to the justice of the peace in Montfermeil.”

Valjean's fingers tightened around the bars of the cell. He could barely believe Javert's words. He had half feared that now that he was in Javert's power once more, Javert would seek to wash his hands off Cosette, abandoning her to one of those miserable institutions that took in the orphans of Paris. In that case, even if Valjean managed to escape eventually, it would have been impossible to find her.

“And the other one?” the captain asked. “Shall we keep him in custody for you?”

“No,” Javert said.

Inwardly, Valjean trembled. Javert's eyes had returned to rest on him once more. They shone with the old, familiar gleam of Javert's triumph. And yet, there was a strange restlessness in Javert's gaze as well. What did it mean? Valjean had been prepared to plead, if that was what it would take. It had never softened Javert's heart before—but it felt like something had changed since that moment in the hayloft. Valjean could not say how he knew, but he thought that if he resorted to begging now, to making that old offer once more, Javert might have given in.

“No. He comes with me.”

At Javert's words, the captain unlocked the door. Valjean stepped out of the cell, flushing at the open curiosity of Javert's superior. Even now, it was hard to bear those eyes on him. How much worse would it have been to return to Toulon at his age, to face untold numbers of eyes on him and hear his story recounted as a tale for the amusement of every visitor to the bagne?

“We can have him collared, if you want. For ease of travel,” the captain offered.

Valjean swallowed but did not move, imagining the iron around his throat once more—and Cosette's reaction when her savior turned out to be a galley-slave.

“No,” Javert said slowly, still eyeing him. “No. You will obey me now, Valjean, won't you?”

“Yes, Inspector,” Valjean said softly, lowering his head.

His heart was beating fast in his chest. He did not know what Javert intended. Surely this was not mercy, not from Javert. A trap then, perhaps? Or a test? Did Javert want to see how he would behave without a chain and collar—only to punish him harshly at the very first transgression?

But Javert was still watching him, and in his eyes Valjean could see none of the former triumph. Instead, Javert seemed unsettled by something, although he met Valjean's eyes calmly.

A moment later, Javert turned from him. Valjean followed obediently when they were shown out of the jail. The room they came into held several desks—and there, in a corner, Cosette was sitting, quiet and unobtrusive like a mouse.

While Javert and his superior continued to discuss the details of the case and the money that had been confiscated with the captain of the company, Valjean kept his eyes on Cosette. She was still dressed in her black dress and the new coat, and some kind soul had given her a piece of bread. When she saw him, joy filled the small face once more, as though she had spied her savior in a sea of fearsome monsters.

She came towards him, clinging to his hand. A shiver ran through Valjean as he looked into her upturned face, shaken by the joy and the trust she placed in him—and that after he had stolen away with her at midnight, and after she had been escorted to a jail by a company of gendarmes.

"Are we going home now, monsieur?" she whispered.

At her words, Javert turned his head to stare at him once more. Another shudder ran through Valjean at the sensation. Where Cosette's eyes were filled by an absolute trust that shook him to his core, there was a strange thoughtfulness in Javert's eyes. The sensation was unsettling; Valjean almost would have preferred the old derision and mistrust. Now, something about the way Javert watched him set him on edge. Had Javert come to a new resolve towards him? For some reason, it felt as though Valjean was under constant observation, his behavior judged against whatever conclusion Javert had come up with.

"We are going to Montfermeil," Valjean said softly. When Cosette's eyes immediately filled with terror at the words, he hastened to add, "The Thénardiers are gone. You won't have to return to them."

Javert was still watching him. Uncomfortably, Valjean looked down. Was Javert waiting for him to promise Cosette that he would take her away? It was true: Valjean still had half the money hidden away in the forest, and Javert and the state none the wiser. Thénardier had fled, and in either case had committed crimes far worse than the one Javert now suspected him of. For the brigandry and the attempted murder, it would be the blade of the guillotine should he be caught.

If Valjean could escape with Cosette and run, he could still be free...

An hour later, they set out for Montfermeil in the company of four gendarmes. Javert had borrowed an old set of clothes from one of the men. He had been given a horse by the garrison; Valjean in turn had been granted use of the mare, which the gendarmes had taken with them from the settlement where they had been arrested.

Cosette sat in front of Valjean; that, too, had surprised him. Javert's look had given nothing away. Valjean was now more certain than ever that this was a test. It had not been so long ago that he had been whipped. The welts on his back still smarted. Did Javert hope that Valjean would give his plan away and earn another beating?

Javert nudged his horse closer to Valjean. "This is what you've asked for all along, isn't it?"

Valjean gave him a careful look. "It is, monsieur."

Again Javert seemed to ponder something. Valjean's face heated as he thought of Javert's hands on him. Was this new, unsettling leniency a sign that Javert intended to take him up on that old offer? Would he demand tonight a payment for not allowing the gendarmes to decide Cosette's fate?

Beneath the weight of Javert's gaze, Valjean bent his head. It was a bargain he was willing to make. If it came to that point tonight—Javert would have his surrender.

In Montfermeil, the justice of the peace lived in a white house along the road to Chelles. While Valjean and Javert dismounted to enter his office together with Cosette, the gendarmes continued on towards the inn, to relieve those of their company who were still searching for any trace of the inn-keepers.

At this time of the afternoon, the office was empty. The judge would return soon, the house-keeper offered, not bothering to hide her curious look as she bade them to wait. Then her gaze fell onto Cosette, still clad in her new clothes. After a moment, her eyes widened.

"It's the Lark!" the woman exclaimed in surprise. While Javert and Valjean were ushered into the office, the house-keeper led Cosette away into the kitchen with the promise of bread and milk, no doubt hoping for new gossip.

Left alone in the empty office, with no chains to hold him back, Valjean cautiously stepped towards the window, waiting for Javert to bark a command to remind him of his status. Instead, there was silence. When he turned, Javert was watching him with that same thoughtful expression.

What was it that had Javert so puzzled? To come here at all was extraordinary, when Javert could so easily have Cosette sent away to a hospice and rid himself of the problem.

As much as he might wish it, Valjean knew that Javert was not here for Cosette. But why then had he done it? Did he hope to see Valjean prove him right once more by another escape attempt?

Javert kept looking at him from dark eyes, his mouth narrow. For a long moment, Valjean held his gaze, until at last he could no longer bear the burden of uncertainty.

"Why have you come here?" Valjean asked softly. "I am grateful, monsieur. But I do not understand."

Now Javert scoffed. The disdainful twisting of his lips was familiar, the visible sign of Javert's displeasure bringing a rush of relief. This, Valjean knew well.

"I did not do it for your gratitude," Javert said, his eyes narrowing. He moved towards Valjean, who did not back away. "No, Jean Valjean. But you have led me on a long journey. You've nearly cost me my position. Perhaps I was simply curious to see what's behind all of this. What the girl is to you. Perhaps I simply want to see whether you speak the truth. The depths you would go to to get what you want."

Valjean swallowed. Javert's voice was mild, but his eyes were sharp. There was something threatening and focused in the way he came towards Valjean, like a snake rising up before it would strike. Valjean could almost taste the danger that hung in the air. If he were to provoke Javert now, surely something would give.

But then Javert smiled, and while that sight only heightened Valjean's fear, it was also strangely reassuring. As unsettling as Javert's behavior had been, this was something Valjean knew well: Javert thought himself in control again, demonstrating his dominance.

In turn, Valjean would gladly bow his head before him in submission, if it meant that Cosette would not be sent away. And yet, what other outcome could there be?

He was a slave, Javert's property, branded and surely soon enough chained once more. He could not care for Cosette. But perhaps, if Javert was merciful, he would take Cosette with them to give her into the care of the sisters of charity. Sister Simplice would do what she could to make certain that Cosette would be cared for. In any case, it would be better than what Cosette had known in Montfermeil, for Valjean himself had so long striven to better the lives of the poorest of Montreuil.

The thought was painful, more so now that Cosette's trust in him had pierced his heart like hooks that refused to let go, pulling at him so that the thought of abandoning her to life in an orphanage filled him with constant agony. What use was the money he had hidden away if it could not be used to raise this child out of the darkness that had swallowed her? Should Fantine truly have sacrificed everything, only for her child to grow up an orphan without friends or family, abandoned by the same society that had cast away her mother?

Still, there was hope. Sister Simplice would let him know what happened to Cosette. And once he made an escape and retrieved the money, an anonymous donation could be made in her name. He could have her sent to Paris to be raised and sent to school, growing up radiant and joyful, and her small face would never again bear the bruises of a large, angry hand...

"I think," Javert now murmured, breaking through Valjean's despairing thoughts, "that there are a great many things you would do. Is that not right?"

Valjean watched, trembling as after a moment, Javert reached out and rested his hand against his breast. Valjean's heart thudded in his chest as Javert's thumb stroked slowly along the brand once more.

"It is true, monsieur," he finally replied, his voice weak. He could not look away from Javert's eyes, which were gazing at him with the cruel, amused detachment of the triumphant cat.

"It is true," he said again when Javert did not speak. "What I said before is still true. I am yours, in every way. I would not resist if you wanted—"

"There. See," Javert muttered to himself, tilting his head slightly as he kept staring at Valjean. "I was curious. I thought you would offer again. I was right."

Valjean swallowed thickly, desperation making him heedless. "Is it what you want, monsieur?”

"I want..." Javert repeated thoughtfully. "I think what I want is to know what _you_ want. Is it truly the child? And if so, then why? What are your plans, Jean Valjean? What are you thinking? For you could already be in Paris with the brat, we both know that. Yet here you are, mine once more. Are you aware of that? I truly wonder if you are. Will you not understand that truth unless it is driven home with the crudeness of the bagne?"

Shame heated Valjean's cheeks, and at last he dropped his gaze.

"Monsieur, please," he began, his chest heaving. Javert's hand was still touching him, making him uncomfortably aware of the truth that was burned into his skin.

Even now, he could not fully understand what it was Javert demanded. Did he desire Valjean to give up all hopes and desires of his own? To be Javert's slave in truth—in his heart as well as his mind?

"You have behaved so well on this trip," Javert mused, "but it is an act, is it not? Now you behave because of the child. Not because you are a criminal, a slave of the state, because this is the punishment you deserve. Even now, when you are defeated, when you surrender yourself to me, I look into your eyes, and what I see is the man who dared to overthrow the very order of society, who pretends he is a bourgeois, who wants the people to bow and scrape and say _monsieur_ when it is you who should kneel, Jean Valjean."

“Ask what you want of me,” Valjean offered, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he contemplated what Javert might ask, “and you will have it.”

A low laugh escaped Javert. He leaned in until his eyes filled Valjean's vision, his breath hot on his face.

“What I want,” Javert murmured, “is your surrender. Your obedience. Not because you seek to make a deal. I want you to be mine, Jean Valjean. Completely mine, in mind as well as body. Only then will your surrender be true.”


	36. Chapter 36

Jean Valjean stood before Javert, his broad frame lit by the sunlight that fell in through the window. Javert was so close that he could see every twitch of a muscle, every breath Valjean exhaled, every shifting of his eyes. Valjean's face was flushed. He was tense, the powerful body holding so still that Javert imagined beneath the shirt every muscle and tendon stood out in hard relief. Beneath his hand, Valjean's heart was racing, a rapid tattoo against his palm.

Heat had long since risen in his own blood. For a moment, Valjean's closeness threatened to overwhelm all reason. He could nearly taste Valjean's surrender; he was so close to that goal that he could almost feel it. All he had to do was force Valjean to bend just a little more, and then...

Javert's mouth was dry at the images that rose up in his mind. It was true: Valjean had offered, and Javert had every right to claim whatever he desired. How good it would feel to at last demand that final surrender! There in the hayloft, Valjean had looked at him with infuriating calmness, treating Javert as an equal as he recounted his plans for flight. If he had Valjean on his back, if he watched those strong thighs raise and spread for him, surely that doubt would be driven away once and for all. Valjean had known these things before: four convicts in the galleys, he had admitted. There was no reason at all why Javert should not claim what was legally already his.

Now, at last, a shudder ran though Valjean. His eyes closed as though in agony, but again he offered no resistance as Javert leaned in even closer. His hand was still on Valjean's chest; he thought of the brand beneath his fingers, and then his thumb brushed against a small, hard nipple.

Valjean trembled, his lips parting. Javert pressed the nail of his thumb to the erect nipple instead, dragging it hard against the small nub.

Valjean drew in a shaky breath with a sound that was almost a moan. “I do not know what you are asking, monsieur.”

A laugh escaped Javert at the blatant lie. “You know very well what I'm asking. And I know just as well as you that you are not willing to give it. You have not been mine for a single moment since I bought you, no matter how prettily you beg, or how many chains you wear.”

Valjean swallowed heavily. Javert watched as a droplet of sweat slid down his throat.

“No, monsieur,” Valjean said tonelessly. “When you beat me... For a moment there, I was yours. For a moment, you turned me into Jean-le-Cric once more. Is that what you want? For me to forget who I am?”

Javert stared at Valjean, and for once, Valjean met his eyes, his gaze bold and unafraid even though Valjean was still wholly in his power, the muscle-bound body trembling at Javert's touch.

The man was a puzzle. All of his life, Javert had worked to guard society from men like him. Javert had grown up with his kind. He knew how convicts thought and acted. For forty years, that certainty had been a rope to cling to, and it had guided him safely along the straight path of the law.

Yet here Jean Valjean stood, a man Javert had thought he knew, whom he had since come to know intimately, and he was still no closer to understanding the irritating phenomenon of this man. Jean Valjean was like a thistle, an ugly weed one thought ripped from the garden—and yet later, one would find the thistle still clinging to shirt or trousers, resisting all attempts to pull it free, for its many hooks had pierced the fabric too deeply.

Such a thing had happened to Javert now. For so many weeks, he had traveled and lived with Valjean that he had not even realized how little by little, this man's brittle hooks had pierced his own skin. And now, now he could hardly turn without thinking of Valjean's red lips on his thigh, or the taste of Valjean's blood on his own lips.

His fingers tightened in the shirt over Valjean's heart. He remembered the heat of Valjean's back, the raised welts he had traced with his own fingers, the way the sensation of owning that brawny body had stirred him.

It stirred him still. Here, with Jean Valjean staring at him, wide-eyed and at his mercy and yet, for some inexplicable reason, still meeting him as an equal despite his many promises of submission, heat throbbed hard and fast through Javert's blood, an aching, steady pulse between his legs.

“Does what I want even matter?” Javert murmured. “Can I ever truly break you? Was I too proud, too hasty in my purchase; are you the sort of beast that would rather gnaw off its own leg and die in the wilderness than live in captivity?”

Valjean stared at him, unblinking, his eyes were wide as his chest rose and fell rapidly beneath Javert's touch.

Javert laughed, the sound rough and mocking, and meant for himself rather than Valjean. “I should beat you and be done with it. Beat all rebellion from you. It could be done; you think it cannot, but I have seen it done. You think you have survived the bagne, but it would be different. I could make it personal. Just you and me, Valjean. You should not doubt it; I can break you, once and for all. I could beat your balls until you beg me to cut them off. I could brand your face to make certain you will never run again. I could let you serve others, until you learn that it is not something you can try and bribe me with because your body is already mine.”

Valjean was very still. He had not moved at Javert's words; not even a single twitch had given away his reaction. Now, as Javert kept watching him, a shudder ran through Valjean.

Javert could not look away. At that moment, Valjean was truly his: every muscle in his body was tensed, all his attention focused on Javert, and Javert alone.

Javert allowed himself a humorless smile. “You don't even plead for mercy, and you are right, for there would be none. Do you know why, Valjean? Because the truth is that I would enjoy it.”

He pressed down harder, the corner of his nail rasping against the erect nipple, until Valjean's lips finally parted and he made a small, wounded sound. His eyes were very dark. There was something terrible and satisfying about the sight: Jean Valjean reduced at last to the hunted animal.

“I would enjoy it—perhaps even more than I would enjoy taking you up on your offer.”

There was a certain relief in admitting it. The fire in his veins still burned brightly, the pulse of his lust a steady throb low between his legs at the thought of Valjean subdued and helpless.

Javert allowed his hand to fall away, and Valjean drew in a shaky breath.

“So why then, when I look at you, do I keep seeing you sucking that poison from me?” Javert muttered. Again he laughed, and then, angry at the strange fate that had brought him to such a place, he stepped away from Valjean, pacing through the room.

“Surely a beating would take care of it,” he murmured more to himself than Valjean as he strode towards the shelves at the other side of the room, then turned to pace between the windows. “For him, as well as for me. He deserves it, there is no doubt about that. And I would enjoy it—by God, I would enjoy it.” He clenched his fingers to fists, another despairing laugh bubbling up in him.

How had he come to this place? Surely, as strange as the decisions were that had led him to purchase Valjean, then travel to Montfermeil and now return to this place yet again, there had been compelling reasons for all of them. Even his patron had been pleased by the money which had been retrieved. Perhaps Javert would at last leave the provinces; perhaps he would receive a position in Paris.

Nothing was lost: he could solder an iron collar around Valjean's neck once more, he could force Valjean to his knees, he could drive that look from Valjean's face and make him—

He was stopped short by the damning memory of Valjean's lips hot and urgent against his thigh. When he raised his eyes to Valjean's face, breathing as heavily as though he had run, he found that Valjean was still watching him from his place by the window. He had not moved.

“Are you afraid of me? You should be,” Javert said. “God knows you should be.”

“No,” Valjean said simply after a moment had passed. His eyes were still dark, and he was pale, but it was true: he held Javert's gaze evenly, like a man who had nothing to fear—or perhaps one who had nothing left to fear.

“At least not enough that I would not do it again. Though you might beat me for it. Or... or do what you have threatened.” Valjean's cheeks flushed, but he continued in despair, “I would do the same for the inn-keeper, or any other man.”

“I truly think,” Javert murmured in frustration, “that you would do whatever I asked of you. Is that not right? No matter what I demand, if that brat is cared for. But no matter what I do, you will always look at me with those eyes. Those eyes that tell me that you believe we are equals. More: I look at you and there is a voice that tries to claim that virtue has placed you above me, when that is impossible, when I have seen you in the bagne myself, when my own brand is on your chest. You deserve no respect, Jean Valjean. None. And yet you've brought me to this point where I think of you constantly, like an itch that will not go away, the cursed mystery of you. What are you, Jean Valjean? A slave. A convict. Mine—my possession in the eyes of law and state.”

“That is true, monsieur.” There was shame in Valjean's eyes, but also determination as he continued. “But although you call me your possession I am still a man, just like you.”

Javert huffed in exasperation. “There. Again he proves me right. Do you know, Jean Valjean, that just for that answer alone I could whip you? I should whip you. Make you bleed until you learn respect.”

Valjean was trembling, but he still had not shifted, even though Javert knew his strength and there were no chains on Valjean. His eyes were filled with despair, but even so he refused to look away, despite the threats that Javert had hurled at him. Something about the man's resilience chafed, and for a moment Javert thought again of the welts hot and aching beneath his fingers. How far could the man be pushed before he would break? How far could Valjean bend for him?

“Or you could treat me as if I were a man, just like you, instead of an animal,” Valjean said despairingly. He drew in a shuddering breath, then continued softly, “Monsieur, instead of beating respect into me, I would... I would give it voluntarily.”

“If I earned it,” Javert said. “That is what you are saying, isn't it?”

Valjean was silent in answer, his eyes wide and helpless. His silence was answer enough, Javert supposed; there truly was no other way to read his words. And yet... And yet. To have Valjean bound by invisible chains, that strong body doing his bidding without the threat of a flogging... that too was seductive.

Javert bared his teeth, frustrated by the way it was becoming impossible to focus. “You annoy me!” he snapped. “I shouldn't even be talking to you. Would you still talk like this if I'd let the gendarmes put another collar on you, I wonder?”

Valjean swallowed thickly, hesitating for a moment. “I thank you, monsieur—for Cosette to see me like that...”

Javert froze, his head jerking up. “The girl?” he said in disbelief. “I did not do it for that brat. Don't fool yourself, Jean Valjean. I've told you before what I think of your kindness.”

“Why then did you do it?” Valjean asked.

After a moment's pause, Javert began pacing again. “Why indeed? Surely it's folly. All of it. We should never have come here. But I had a thought... I had a thought that you would not attack or run. How strange to believe such a thing of a bagnard. A galley-slave branded with my own initial, who stole from me and ran from me. And yet, I believed you would come along, meek as a mouse. Have I gone mad? Perhaps I merely intended to prove to myself that I was mistaken, that you are the very devil whom I knew in the bagne, a sly fox who sought to mock the foundations of order itself by becoming a magistrate.”

“Have I failed your test, monsieur?” Valjean asked softly, and Javert scoffed as he turned and paced along the window once more.

“I thank you for your kindness regardless,” Valjean said after a moment.

When Javert gave him a sharp look he seemed calm, his shoulders relaxed now that Javert had stepped away. Another image flashed through Javert's mind: that strong body vulnerable in sleep, his breath hot against Javert's skin. Valjean's hand on his thigh as he cautioned him in the forest of Montfermeil.

Javert ground his teeth. “I have come to know you, Jean Valjean,” he muttered, “and I do not like that very much. Take care. Do not think you can bribe me...”

“Monsieur, you own me, as you said. It could not be a bribe.”

Javert laughed again, fury and despair rising up in him for no reason that he could see, nearly overwhelming him. Valjean denied it, but was he not even now trying to assert that Javert should earn his respect? The mere thought of it: he, Javert, to have to earn a galley-slave's respect! What strange thing had taken place that such madness had taken hold of him?

Surely, even now, these follies could be cut from his mind: he could whip Valjean until his back bled and that strong body was forced to its knees, and there would be no more talk of respect and willingness as Valjean obeyed his every command, as it should be.

Or: to push that strong body down upon a bed. To tear off his shirt, to bear the scar of the brand on his chest that said _Javert_ , to trace it with his hands and watch those powerful thighs spread in invitation, to take possession of the strong body that gave itself over willingly to him and his desires...

In despair, Javert raised a shaky hand to his head. Just then, a door fell shut somewhere else in the house, and there was the distant sound of voices.

Javert froze, reality catching up with him once more: here he was, in the office of a magistrate, with a thousand unseemly urges pounding hard and fast through his veins! What madness had ridden him to come here in the first place? He did not owe Valjean anything!

He turned, his lips half parted to bark a command, some threat that would reassert order between them—but there at the window, Valjean had turned away from him, his head bent and his eyes half-closed. Sunlight fell onto him through the window, gleaming golden on his silver locks, deepening the lines of pain and sorrow around his mouth.

Valjean's hand had been raised to his chest. There, were moments ago Javert had stroked the brand, tormenting a sensitive nipple, Valjean's hand now gingerly touched himself as if to soothe the ache Javert's nail had left—or perhaps attempting to recreate that moment of connection that still throbbed searing hot through Javert's own veins.

Shaken, Javert had to turn away from the sight, his mouth dry as he desperately fought to subdue the demon within him. There were steps that could be heard outside now, and the voice of the woman who had greeted them. When, several minutes later, the justice of the peace finally entered the small office, Javert had himself under control once more, his voice calm as he greeted the man. He had not dared to turn and meet Valjean's eyes again during the wait.


	37. Chapter 37

The justice of the peace was an older man, round-faced and jovial with thinning white hair, but eyes that were surprisingly sharp as he looked his guests up and down. The man, Valjean learned as he listened to his introduction, was called M. Champlois, and had just come from a neighboring village where his assessment in a dispute over a border between two houses was wanted.

“Inspector Javert, of Montreuil-sur-Mer?” the judge asked as he looked up from the letter Javert's superior had sent with him. “You've come a long way. I've no power over disputes in Pas-de-Calais.”

Javert straightened. “You will find, monsieur, that I have come to have a problem settled which falls under your responsibilities. That man over there is called Jean Valjean, a galley-slave whom I purchased in Toulon.”

The judge's gaze came to rest on Valjean, who in turn did not dare to meet his eyes.

“An interesting tale, but still no responsibility of mine,” M. Champlois said kindly. “But here, in this letter the secretary of the prefect of police himself bids me to listen to you, so go on, Inspector.”

“This man was declared responsible for the well-being of a child. The mother died in Montreuil—but the child lived here in Montfermeil, working for the inn-keeper Thénardier.”

“Ah,” the judge said with interest. “The one they call the Lark? Thénardier and his family are gone; you must have been told, monsieur. They also left many unpaid bills behind.”

Javert made a disdainful sound. “I am not surprised, monsieur. The inn-keeper and his accomplice tried to murder me—more than once, in fact. Regardless, I am certain that he will be behind bars soon enough. Still, this leaves the problem of the child. When we fled from the inn, we took her with us. In Montreuil-sur-Mer, I have several documents as well as testimonies from upstanding citizens that this man over there received guardianship of the child from the mother on her deathbed.”

“And yet you say he is a galley-slave.” The judge's eyes came to rest once more on Valjean, who willed himself to bear the scrutiny calmly.

Valjean still remembered only too well the judgment of the people of Montreuil-sur-Mer. There was no reason to expect compassion from a judge who had never known him. Still, he would gladly bear the humiliation of having Javert recount his past crimes, if only Cosette would not be taken away.

“Of course,” Javert said with barely hidden impatience, “he has no rights, but I acquired him lawfully, and so I also acquired his rights and responsibilities in that regard. In any case, the question of the girl needs to be settled. With the inn-keeper on the run, whatever agreement between the mother and Thénardier was in place is now void.”

The judge inclined his head. “Indeed. As an orphan, surely the most convenient solution would be to have her sent to the hospice—”

“No,” Valjean interrupted, then flushed when both Javert and the judge turned to look at him.

“Forgive me, monsieur,” Valjean continued, his throat dry. “But her mother was from Montreuil-sur-Mer, and had returned there to find work. She would want the child to be cared for there, rather than sending her to a hospice in Paris. In Montreuil, a foster family could easily be found, and it is what her mother had wished. Under article 397, I was appointed guardianship of the child—”

“You will be silent,” Javert said, his eyes dark even though his voice lacked the usual heat. “Monsieur le juge, I do agree that your solution would be the most convenient. But it is true that the mother gave guardianship to this man, who has become my property, and so I feel that his responsibilities are now mine.”

The judge steepled his hands as his gaze wandered from Valjean to Javert. “Is there no father?” he asked mildly.

This time, Valjean managed to remain silent even as Javert scoffed.

“The woman was a prostitute. Chances are that Jean Valjean here is the father. After all, you heard him plead for the child. If he isn't, the father could be anyone—most probably dead, or surely the woman wouldn't have left Paris.”

“No relatives? Grandparents?” M. Champlois asked after a moment. His eyes lingered on Valjean, who did not dare to move beneath the weight of the thoughtful gaze.

“None,” Javert said curtly. “The woman never named the father; Jean Valjean will not admit to it. Thénardier is a villain and will soon enough meet his fate. As you see, there is no guardian left for the child, and as the galley-slave had been given guardianship before witnesses, and he is now mine in the eyes of the law—”

“Your devotion to your duty honors you,” the judge said, “but I don't think this case is as easy as you claim it is. If the mother made the galley-slave a guardian, surely all of that has been rendered void by his conviction. Thus, you have no claim through him.”

In the silence that followed, Valjean remembered once more the look on Fantine's face as she beheld Javert coming into the room. His heart was racing in his chest. Should he fail Cosette now, when he had come so far?

“If I were to admit to fathering her?” Valjean shuddered to pronounce such a thing when he had seen with his own eyes the suffering Fantine had borne.

Should he now give Javert and society the satisfaction of looking at him and declare him the sort of man who had brought that suffering upon her? And yet, what else was there to do if he wanted to save Cosette from vanishing into the bowels of Paris, forever out of his reach?

Javert’s head turned, and Valjean found himself once more a recipient of the sharp gaze that had caused many a criminal to tremble. But Valjean was not intimidated, even though the threats Javert had hurled at him still cast shadows in his mind. For now, he also remembered the way Fantine had clung to Javert’s legs, the suffering on her face as she rested in the hospital bed, and the terror when with her last breath, she beheld Javert hurling Madeleine’s true identity at her like a weapon. 

Bravely, Valjean forced himself to meet M. Champlois' eyes, his heart hammering in his chest. Despite the judge's white hair and his tidily knotted cravat and impeccable coat, there was the shadow of dirt beneath his nails, and Valjean recognized in the broad shoulders the frame of a man who did not like idleness.

“That might change things,” M. Champlois murmured, “or it might not. You are still a galley-slave, sold to Inspector Javert, from what I understand.”

“Monsieur Chabouillet will vouch for the truth of all that I have said, if you want to send to Paris,” Javert said respectfully. “Or I can send the relevant papers to you from Montreuil, which will take a few days.”

“Even so, surely he lost all rights to guardianship over the child the moment he was convicted,” the judge said, his eyes still on Valjean. “In which case you have no claim through him either, Inspector.”

“How can that be?” Now, at last, there was impatience in Javert's voice. “I purchased him. His body, his labor, whatever he earns are mine by rights. Surely I purchased his duties and rights towards the child as well. And you heard him admit—“

“Perhaps,” the judge said, “although I'm not convinced, even if he speaks the truth. On the other hand, what reason is there to send another gamin to the hospice in Paris? If the mother’s roots are in Montreuil, if you can find fostering for her there—“

“Montreuil does well enough,” Javert admitted grudgingly. “There is work. Work will be found for the child as well. She will lead an honest life and learn to support herself through honest work—unlike her mother or the inn-keepers. Surely you agree that is desirable?”

“It is indeed,” the judge mumbled. “Still, is it sound in the eyes of the law? It would be less trouble for both you and me to simply have her brought to the hospice—“

“Monsieur,” Valjean now dared to interrupt again, who had been listening silently so far, his heart clenching with fear. “If nothing I have said makes a difference, then the child has the right to have a family council called.”

Inwardly, Valjean trembled. Would Javert choose to have him beaten again for his insolence?

But for once, Javert ignored his interruption and straightened, continuing Valjean’s train of thought in triumph as if the argument had been his all along.

“Title X section 4 of the Code Civile, monsieur. A family council should be convened; the law demands it in these cases. Surely that will settle the matter once and for all, and both you and I will be satisfied to see the law upheld and this case settled.”

M. Champlois leaned back in his chair, exhaling thoughtfully. Then, slowly, he reached into a drawer and took out a small box, helping himself to a pinch of snuff. Once that small ritual was completed, he looked Javert over once more. “Have your man call in my house-keeper, if you will,” he at last relented.

The woman, it was revealed, had in fact been waiting in the corridor, curious what this strange gathering in her master’s office meant. When the judge sent her out without an explanation to walk through the village and see if she could find any friends of the Lark, she clutched her hand to her chest in surprise. Nevertheless, she followed the order without protest, certainly eager to share the gossip of the strange occurrences this day had brought.

Several hours later, the family council convened in the house of the justice of the peace of Montfermeil. It consisted of white-haired M. Champlois, justice of the peace, of Javert, Inspector of Montreuil-sur-Mer—and of Jean Valjean, galley slave and responsibility of Javert.

“How can that be?” Javert asked irritably. “Surely Jean Valjean lost all rights that would—“

“He did not lose the right to be a friend of the child,” the judge said, his voice mild, though firm enough that Javert ceased his protest. “As no other friends can be found, surely you will agree that, whether he fathered the child or not, his interest in her well-being and the fact that both of you have traveled with the girl is enough to have both of you stand in as her friends in this council.”

When Javert turned, the look he gave Valjean showed clearly enough what he was thinking of the man's judgment. And yet Javert did not speak. Perhaps it was simply that Javert was eager to get this over with, and that he would do what he must to satisfy the demands of the judge. In either case, Valjean met his gaze calmly, praying that his acquiescence would soothe Javert, whose pride would no doubt feel injured by the thought that a convict and a slave he had purchased was to be given a vote equal to that of Javert and a magistrate.

“As I see it, there are two options for the child,” the judge began. “She can be sent to a hospice in Paris, where they'll find a family to foster her. She is old enough to work, and in fact has earned her living with the inn-keeper. While it is true that the man was a villain, some other family will be found. She'll work for her living and in time learn a trade.”

If such a family could be found, Valjean thought quietly by himself, though he did not dare to interrupt the judge. Perhaps the next family the state found for her would starve her again—and without a distant mother offering the chance to send money, there would be no incentive to treat her well. The distant memories of seven pale, hungry faces had long since been forgotten in the endless grind of the bagne that had leeched everything good from him, but he remembered the trust with which Cosette had placed her small hand into his, and shuddered as he imagined it reddened from the cold.

“Or Inspector Javert could be named her friendly guardian, a position which he will hold until the girl turns fifteen. The child would be brought to the town the mother hails from, and the Inspector will find fostering for her there?”

At Javert's begrudging nod, the judge's eyes came to rest on Valjean once more.

Valjean met his gaze to show that he had understood, but once more chose to remain silent. There was no third option—even though Fantine had wanted him to hold the position of Cosette's guardian, he was well aware of the fact that he had lost every right in the eyes of society to hold such a position. It was already a kindness that the judge had included him in this council at all.

Nevertheless, the truth of his powerlessness exhausted him, and for a moment, the task Fantine had left him with seemed to weigh too heavily. How could he, a convict, a slave, stripped of all rights and branded like an animal, carry the burden of a young child's happiness?

“Your vote, Inspector.”

"My vote is to appoint myself, Javert, as a friendly guardian, until she is of age.”

Even though this was what Javert had seemed to argue for all along, Valjean was hit by a wave of relief. How strange it was to hear Javert demand responsibility for Cosette. Still, surely to Javert this meant little more than having another case filed away, and having his earlier actions, when they had run with Cosette from the Thénardiers, validated in the eyes of the law.

He doubted that Javert truly thought about what would be best for Cosette, or indeed about what solution Cosette would desire. But it seemed that for once, the Inspector's pride and unfailing belief in the letter of the law had led him into the direction Valjean had hoped for.

"Very well," the judge said. "Jean Valjean, your vote?"

"I vote to appoint Javert her friendly guardian, so that she can be fostered in her mother's hometown," Valjean said. 

How strange it felt to speak these words with Javert watching him, when only a few months ago, Fantine had died with Javert's uncaring eyes on her. And yet, Valjean had not betrayed his promise to her. Not yet. As peculiar as it seemed to have Javert appointed Cosette's guardian, Valjean could not afford to lose sight of what truly mattered: that Cosette would remain where he would be able to see her, perhaps—that in any case, he would have news of her whereabouts and her well-being. 

Surely Javert would be watchful, and an escape on the road would be impossible—but sooner or later, there would be another chance. Valjean might even rescue the money from its hiding place before the dampness of the forest destroyed what was left of his fortune.

The judge nodded slowly. "In that case, my own vote will go to the Inspector as well. There are thousands of orphans in Paris; let her be raised in her mother's hometown. You will remember, Inspector, to have her fostered with a family so that she can learn to work and avoid her mother's fate."

"Of course," Javert said promptly and with great satisfaction.

Valjean felt a wave of tiredness wash over himself as he quietly watched the proceedings. As the judge wrote yet another letter for Javert, Valjean's eyes wandered towards the window.

It still seemed like a miracle that Javert had chosen this solution. Why had he done it? It could not be because he felt responsible for Cosette's well-being. Surely, in Javert's eyes, sending her to a hospice in Paris would be just as good as having her fostered in Montreuil-sur-Mer, and less of a hassle.

But not only had Javert argued with a magistrate for this outcome, he had claimed a responsibility Valjean was certain Javert did not want. Of course, it had to please Javert to have things happen his way, and to have the entire problem solved at last in a way that satisfied the letter of the law—but that could not be all, surely. Not for Javert.

Valjean looked at the sky outside the window, remembering the moment earlier when Javert had stared at him, his eyes alight with a furious heat. A shiver ran through Valjean, his nipple aching as it remembered the sharp pressure of a nail.

Had that truly been Javert, who only moments later had gathered himself to calmly argue with the magistrate? Had their earlier encounter been a momentary lapse that would be soon forgotten?

Valjean swallowed, remembering Javert's threats and the heat of Javert's body pressed against his own.

No, Javert had meant what he said. It would not do to forget it. Javert wanted his surrender. Perhaps it was that desire which had made Javert argue for Cosette—with Valjean's fear for Cosette appeased, he might now demand Valjean's true surrender, as much as Javert had denied earlier that he wanted to make a deal.

Again Valjean looked at Javert. He seemed calm, his face grave as he straightened from signing the judge's documents. He did not turn to look at Valjean, and so Valjean allowed his eyes to linger, remembering the way Javert's hands had stroked along his body in the hayloft. The memory was shocking, even now—the touch of Javert's hands, large and possessive as they slid around his hips, made some animal instinct within him tremble and yearn for escape.

Yet what was one more deal to make? Cosette was safe for the moment, and now Valjean had nothing left to bargain with. Perhaps it would be a relief to surrender himself to that demand. Perhaps not only for him—perhaps also for Javert.

Afterwards, there would be honesty between them. In any case, no matter what Javert's demands were, this was not as bad as the bagne. He needed to remember that. And as long as he gave Javert what he desired, perhaps there could even be peace between them at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to groucha and iberiandoctor who talked a few legal scenarios through with me a while ago!  
> Also, while this is indeed all based on what the Code Civile has to say about [guardianship](http://www.napoleon-series.org/research/government/code/book1/c_title10.html#chapter1), I've had to take a few liberties. Legally, there should have been a wait of 3 days before convening the family council - but then, it's not like that would have caused any further friends of Cosette to appear. :(
> 
> For Cosette's current situation, I found the book [Abandoned Children: Foundlings and Child Welfare in Nineteenth-Century France](https://books.google.de/books?id=jgCxWmEmuDUC&printsec=frontcover&hl=en&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&redir_esc=y#v=onepage&q&f=false) very helpful.


	38. Chapter 38

The inn of the Thénardiers was abandoned. A lonely gendarme kept watch over it, although it seemed unlikely that the Thénardiers would return. Even though Javert was able to retrieve his clothes from the inn, the small bottle of laudanum was gone—vanished, Javert did not doubt, into the pockets of Thénardier.

It was already late, the shadows getting longer when Javert left the inn. Valjean and the girl were silent. The mare awaited them patiently, and for a moment, as Javert led her from the Thénardiers' stable, he was hit once more by a flash of memory: the moment of weightlessness as he clung to Valjean's neck, both of them dangling from the window. The heat and firmness of Valjean's back against his weakened body.

Javert gritted his teeth as he stared at Valjean and the child. Suddenly it all seemed like lunacy. What had possessed him to demand guardianship for the brat? Was it not enough of a burden to deal with Valjean's never-ending rebellions?

"Keep up, both of you," he said curtly. "It's a long way back to Montreuil-sur-Mer."

The child stared at him from wide, dark eyes, although she had the sense to remain silent. Valjean, on the other hand, gave him a curious look.

"It is late, Inspector," Valjean quietly pointed out. "We will not make it far before the sun sinks."

"Well, we cannot stay here," Javert snapped. "The Thénardiers have fled like rats flushed from their nest."

"If you're traveling to Montreuil, you can make it to Villepinte before it gets dark," the gendarme who had been watching them now offered. "There's a small inn there."

Again Javert's eyes went towards the horse and the broad-shouldered man standing next to mare, the small child now clinging to Valjean's hand as she kept watching silently.

"You will walk, Jean Valjean," Javert said darkly. "And I don't want to hear a word out of either of you until we make it to Villepinte."

M. Chabouillet had in fact been kind enough to leave him with a handful of coin, enabling Javert to return to Montreuil while paying for his travel. Nevertheless, although his superior had been extraordinarily pleased by the money that had been retrieved, Javert could not help but see it as charity, which had been neither deserved nor wanted. Yet travel back to Montreuil with not only Valjean but also the girl would mean further expenses: lodging for the night, food, and the additional money he would owe Master Scaufflaire, for Javert had kept the mare for longer than he had initially paid for.

Javert knew that he needed to be grateful to M. Chabouillet—and that feeling pleased him least of all, overshadowing the triumph at having the mystery of Valjean's hidden money solved at last.

They traveled slowly, Valjean walking tirelessly next to the mare while Javert and Cosette rode. For some reason, the silence now displeased Javert as well—it offered no distraction from the sudden thoughts that kept arising in his mind. Even now, with Valjean in his power once more, he could not forget that moment when Valjean had sucked the poison from his thigh, or the way he had not resisted when Javert had whispered threats into his ear.

Perhaps he had indeed gone mad, Javert acknowledged when they at last reached the small village of Villepinte, the sun so low that many windows were already lit.

But if it was a madness, certainly it was only a temporal one. Soon, they would be in Montreuil once more. Life would return to its ordinary path. The girl would be fostered and would be out of his hair, and Jean Valjean would wear a collar once more, doing the work Javert gave him without protest.

"There is space in the stable for the horse, monsieur," the inn-keeper's lad said when Javert dismounted. "We've been busy, busier than usual. There's been a robbery in Montfermeil; they've closed down the inn there."

“And a room?”

The boy shrugged. “There's space in the stable for you too, monsieur. For a room, madame will know.”

The inn's proprietress did, in fact, have a room available.

"Take it or leave it," she said unkindly as Javert stared at the bed in the small attic room. "I've had so many travelers come from Montfermeil this week, and my help ran away to Paris, the hussy. It's either this room or the stable."

Javert felt Valjean shift next to him. "Cosette and I could sleep in the stable," Valjean began, then trailed off at the disbelieving look Javert gave him.

"Ha! Yes, that would please you," Javert said, staring balefully at Valjean's throat, where now the lack of a collar was even more noticeable. "No. You stay where I can see you."

"The girl can share my daughters' bed," the woman offered after a moment, her harried face relaxing a little as she looked at the child that still clung to Valjean's hand. "It'll cost you more than the stable, monsieur, but not by much. And the poor child in mourning clothes, too."

Cosette, it was at last settled, would indeed sleep with the two daughters of the proprietress. During the meal, Cosette clung to Valjean's side; after the meal, the two girls came forward with a worn doll clad in colorful rags. Soon, the three children were playing together by the fireplace, pretending that a broken chair resting there in a corner was the house the doll lived in.

Jean Valjean had been quiet through the meal. Now he was watching the children, his eyes following Cosette. Once, Javert saw a frown appear on his face when Cosette was given the ragged doll to cradle in her arms.

"If you're thinking that you can get me to buy the girl a doll, you're mistaken," Javert said without rancor. With their meal, the inn-keeper had served a glass of wine that was now warm in his belly; despite the crowd, the fare had been simple but plentiful, and now that they would return to the chamber to sleep, Jean Valjean securely his once more, surely life would return to the comfortable path they had walked before: Jean Valjean his slave, and Javert in control, the convict's body his to command.

There would be no more escape, no more rebellion—and most importantly, no more disobedience of his own mind.

"I'm grateful that you'll return her to Montreuil, Inspector," Valjean said simply and inclined his head.

"I did not do it for you," Javert said, although there was no heat in it. Then he stood, a little too hastily, fearing that Valjean would ask a question he still could not answer: why, then, had he done it?

There were more than enough reasons he could give, the one the justice had named perhaps the gravest: the girl was old enough to work and learn how to support herself honestly—unlike her mother. There was work in Montreuil, and honest citizens. And would it not be satisfying to prove Valjean and his talk of compassion wrong at last? For it was not Montreuil that had wronged that woman—she had been given work in the factory, after all.

Just like Javert once, the girl now had the choice between an honest life of hard work, or the wickedness of the mother. There was no sense in coddling her, of course—still, if she could be taught to work, Javert thought begrudgingly, she might yet prove of use to society.

“We have a long journey tomorrow. I want no more of your foolishness, do you understand me? You will sleep, and you won't disturb me.”

Javert nodded towards the bed. It was not large, but would fit two men of Javert's build—Valjean's broad shoulders, of course, would make the fit snug.

“Sleep.”

Quietly, his uncertain, dark eyes straying towards Javert more than once, Valjean stripped, then slipped beneath the covers wearing only his shirt. Javert had begun to undress as well, but the sight of Valjean's bare legs and the strong neck once more put him in mind of the missing collar and the chains.

“I should chain you,” he muttered to himself as he looked at the bed, unsettled by how at ease he felt with Valjean free and unbound. “You might kill me in my sleep, or run, in any case, and I have lost all patience with you.”

Valjean turned onto his side, looking up at Javert. “And if I were to promise you that I won't harm you, nor try to run?” he said softly. “Just for this night.”

“Then I would not believe you, Jean Valjean,” Javert said without feeling. “Do you take me for a fool? I know you. Have you forgotten that? Have you forgotten what you told me in the hayloft?”

When he slipped beneath the covers, he could feel the shiver that ran through Valjean.

“I have not forgotten it, monsieur,” Valjean said softly. “I have forgotten nothing of what happened.”

As he stared into Valjean's eyes, his body enveloped by the heat of the man's massive body, Javert remembered for a moment the weight of the knife in his hand and the way Valjean had trembled when he had cut him.

That, too, had been strange. Why had Valjean let him take the knife? Valjean should not have done it. And Javert, in turn, should not have returned the weapon.

For the span of one heartbeat, the balance had shifted, the scales floating weightlessly as for one moment out of time, all conflict between them had been reduced to the sensation of the powerful body surrendering itself willingly to Javert's hand and the knife in it.

It would not happen again, Javert told himself. Whatever that strange stalemate had been, it had been caused by the danger and their flight. Now that order had been restored, these memories would soon fade, and once they made it to Montreuil, everything would be as it had been before.

Javert took another deep breath. "Sleep now," he said again. "If you move so much as one finger during the night, it'll be a collar for you tomorrow. You won't want that, not in front of the girl, isn't that right?"

"No, monsieur," Valjean agreed calmly, then closed his eyes.

His breathing was calm and deep, as though Javert could not feel the heat of his body against his own skin, as though Javert could not reach out even now to press his palm flat against his chest to feel the racing of Valjean's heart, to trace the line of the brand and feel Valjean's breath speed up...

With a shiver, Javert tore himself away from the treacherous images. He turned, then blew out the candle on the nightstand and closed his eyes, determined to think no more of what had been. It meant nothing. Everything was as it should be now.

If he dreamed, he could not remember the images that plagued him during the night. Once or twice, he woke, shifting to find a more comfortable position to rest, the warmth of Valjean next to him reassuring in its familiarity. It was long past midnight, morning creeping closer with the moon's journey across the sky nearly finished, that he half-woke from a dream, with the images still vivid in his mind.

In his dream, he been hunting down Jean Valjean in a forest as one might hunt an animal. Jean Valjean had been helpless beneath him on the forest floor. Javert had sunk his teeth into his neck, clasping his arms around the yielding body—Valjean's heat warming his skin, Valjean's pulse racing against his lips. Neither of them had spoken, but in that moment of darkness, with every rapid beat of Valjean's heart reverberating against Javert's chest like the tolling of a bell, everything had been laid out clearly between them.

He had tasted Valjean's fear and Valjean's surrender. And in those endless heartbeats as he held the powerful body in his arms, Javert was filled with an overwhelming triumph that ran through him in waves, filling every part of his body with the intoxicating awareness of Valjean's submission.

Javert jolted awake with his body still shuddering from the sweetness of that image. He was hot, his body damp with sweat beneath the covers. In his sleep, he had turned, so that he now rested on his side, pressed against Valjean's back.

Valjean's shirt had ridden up during the night. Javert's heart skipped a beat as he realized that he had pressed himself against Valjean's backside; more—that the heat that threatened to consume him in his dream had set his waking body afire as well.

He was hard, achingly so, his stiffened shaft pressed against Valjean's buttocks.

Moreover, his hand had come to rest between Valjean's thighs, his palm covering the hot, vulnerable genitals with a relaxed possessiveness that moments ago had felt entirely natural.

For a moment, Javert could not breathe. Was it all a dream? It seemed to him that this had to be a nightmare, some tormenting vision sent by a devil—and yet, he could feel his heart beating in his chest, a thundering, ravenous rhythm, the heart of a wolf standing above its prey at last.

In his arms, Valjean remained motionless. It took all of Javert's strength to keep himself from rutting against Valjean's buttocks. Even now, the lust that had consumed him in his sleep was nearly overwhelming, the taste of Valjean's surrender still on his tongue.

He could claim it now. The thought hit Javert with sudden force, like the blow of a cudgel to the stomach.

He could slide inside Valjean like this, hold him down while he took that satisfaction which Valjean had long since owed him. Had Valjean not offered it himself? Everything Valjean had said was true: two hundred francs was a great investment, and Valjean was his property in the eyes of the law. No one could fault Javert for making use of his possession.

Javert exhaled a shaky breath. There was very little light, but it was enough to make out the shine of Valjean's hair in the darkness. Valjean was very close. If Javert bent his head a little, he would be able to press his lips to his nape, as he had in the dream. He would be able to taste the fearful thrumming of Valjean's pulse on his tongue as he forced himself inside Valjean. He would—

In the darkness, Valjean made a soft, aching sound. Javert's heart gave a jolt; a moment later, he realized that his fingers had curled around Valjean's prick—and that in his grip, Valjean had begun to harden.


	39. Chapter 39

Valjean could not say what had woken him. For long moments, he drifted in the comfortable twilight between sleep and awake, lost in hazy memories of the warmth of Boucard's embrace, and the rough, sure hands of the chainmate that had known his body so well and brought him comfort despite the shame of the bagne.

Was it so wrong to remember these moments and feel that reawakened longing to be touched with gentleness? Surely in his dreams at least, such things could not be judged; it was a nightmare, perhaps, but one he was glad for. He breathed deeply, his tense, aching body relaxing at long last into the comforting warmth of the body behind him.

Boucard was aroused. Valjean could feel him against his buttocks, stiff and straining, but that was well too. It had been so long...

It was not until a hand wrapped itself around his own aching shaft that the veil of sleep began to lift. The contact sent heat through him, his bones turning to liquid as the hand stroked him with a sure touch.

Then Valjean's eyes blinked open. He became aware of the darkness surrounding him, the heavy breaths ghosting across his nape, and at last, he remembered just where he was—and who was sharing his bed.

Javert.

Shock made him freeze, his heart thudding in his chest even as the hand which he now knew to be Javert's drew along his shaft.

Valjean did not know what to do. Was this not what he had expected all along? Indeed, he had even offered himself to Javert. Was it so surprising that Javert would at last make use of what he had purchased? Valjean's body belonged to Javert. He had always known that this would happen.

Still, Javert did not speak nor move. Was this how it would happen? Would Javert take him like this, from behind in the darkness, as it had been in the bagne, and in the morning they would pretend it had never happened?

It would not be so terrible, Valjean told himself, a sudden, fierce shame welling up in him at how his shaft still throbbed in Javert's hand. It was just as it had been then. A moment of comfort—perhaps it would be even that. He knew Javert. Javert would not be cruel if Valjean did not resist. What was the difference to Javert making use of him instead of his chainmate?

Javert kept breathing against his neck. Javert was very still now. His hand had ceased its caresses, although Valjean could still feel Javert's prick insistent against his buttocks, rigid like a cudgel forced between his thighs to humiliate him.

Valjean swallowed when the silence continued. He licked his lips, aching to speak, to lift the terror of uncertainty—but he could not force out words. Let Javert do as he pleased. Surely that was what Javert wanted? Valjean would offer no resistance, no matter what it was.

It seemed like an eternity until he felt Javert draw back, his hand at last releasing Valjean's shaft.

"You're awake," Javert said. It was not a question.

"Yes," Valjean admitted after a long, tense moment. His eyes had become used to the light; he could make out the silhouette of a chest, and the window through which sparse moonlight fell in.

Again Javert was silent. His breathing was labored. Valjean could no longer feel his prick—but Javert's hand was on his hip, resting there heavy and ominous.

At last Javert shifted, his shaft sliding hot and hard against Valjean's thigh. A soft sound escaped Valjean, a gasp that could have been fear, or perhaps longing—but the truth of feeling Javert hot and hard against his skin had swept away all emotion but that of shock.

"Valjean," Javert began, his voice very rough and uncertain.

He must have half sat up; when he shifted even further, Valjean felt his breath against his neck once more. Javert's hand tightened around his hip—and his own prick gave a confused, aching throb as an image flashed through his mind: the last night Boucard took him, that final night they were chainmates before his release. His arms had embraced Valjean all through the night, and his voice had been rough not only when he found release.

Confused, overwhelmed, half-afraid of those memories of moments he had not thought of for nearly a decade, Valjean rolled over onto his back, staring up into the face of Javert.

There was very little light, but the form of Javert above him was unmistakable. Valjean could make out the silhouette of his whiskers, and the sharp gleam of eyes that were resting on him right now with a heat and a heaviness that equaled the molten heat low in his own stomach.

His fingers were trembling when Valjean raised a hand to rest it against Javert's side. In the night, Valjean's shirt had ridden up; even now, he could feel his own shaft, heavy and hot, sprawled on his stomach like a strange animal.

"I am yours, monsieur," he said into the darkness, feeling the heat of Javert's skin even through the thin fabric of his shirt. "If you... I am yours."

Dazed, he could think of no other way to express of what he felt right now: the fear, the shameful heat, that desperate yearning for something he could not quite name. Surely it had to be better to make an end of this uncertainty, to surrender to Javert at last, giving Javert what he had demanded earlier: his utter submission, in mind as well as body.

"Do you know what..." Javert sounded shaken, his voice hoarse.

Even in the gloom, Valjean could make out the shine of his eyes. They were wide, his brows drawn together. As Valjean shivered in anticipation of what was about to come, a groan escaped Javert, and he rolled over to straddle Valjean, one arm to each side of his face as he leaned in.

"You are mine," Javert said roughly, "it's true. No one could fault me for taking what is mine. And perhaps I have been lacking all along. Perhaps there would have been less rebellion had I demanded this from the start."

His eyes were wild. Even in the darkness, Valjean could see that there was something extraordinary going on, for Javert, who was usually so controlled, was shaking now like a tree trying to withstand a storm.

Valjean's fingers drifted from Javert's side to his back. Even through the fabric of the shirt, he could feel the damp heat of his skin.

Valjean was breathing shallowly, looking up into Javert's face. Despite Javert's threat, his body was still alight with fearful excitement. With every beat of his heart, there came a jolt of heat between his legs, his shaft relentlessly hard as though his body desired to shame him in the eyes of Javert. Again he thought of Boucard's embrace.

Valjean did not move, his hand resting on Javert's back, but despite the fear that still coursed through him with every shuddering breath, he allowed his thighs to splay open.

"I told you, I will be obedient now," he said softly, his heart beating in his throat.

Javert made another sound, a strangled laugh that was half angry and half despairing. "So you say," he muttered. He shifted again.

A shiver ran across Valjean's skin when he felt Javert's prick hot and hard against his thigh. Surely it would have to happen now. It had to happen now. Valjean would not resist, and Javert would be pleased. Valjean would bear this, and in the morning, with this out in the open between them, surely everything would be easier. Was that not how it always was? Valjean could still run when there was a chance—but until such a moment came, perhaps Javert would be placated, and there would be peace between them.

"You frustrate me," Javert murmured in the darkness. The sound of his breathing was not so unlike the panting of a wild animal—or the sounds of the salle.

Valjean breathed slowly, trying to ignore the aching pull in his stomach as heat gathering there at Javert's touch.

Again Javert leaned forward. Valjean felt his breath hot against his cheek. Javert's shaft slid against his own, and a soft, embarrassed sound escaped Valjean when he realized that his stomach was damp with sweat and the drops of arousal that had dripped from his own prick. Even so, the sensation was good. Valjean closed his eyes in mortification, praying for it to happen so that there would be an end to this torment at last.

He raised his legs, bending his knees. At the motion, his shaft slid alongside Javert's arousal once more, so that he gasped again, even as Javert panted low and rough into his ear.

Javert's hand drew up his chest. Over his heart, it halted, Javert's thumb tracing the raised line of the brand, then trailing downward until it skimmed a nipple.

Valjean drew in an overwhelmed breath. His chest arched upwards, his heart beating so fast that it seemed it would burst. His pulse was a constant roar in his ears.

"Monsieur," Valjean gasped. His prick throbbed against Javert's, so shamefully aroused that surely any movement at all would be enough to finish him. The truth of it was nearly unbearable, shame welling up in him thick enough to choke on. But still his body throbbed with heat and the remembered caresses of the past, and even in his fear he could not bring himself to resist what would follow.

He would let it all wash over him, the fear, the pain, the shame, even the pleasure, and in the morning, surely it would all be gone.

"Damn you, Jean Valjean!" With a sound of choking rage, Javert abruptly drew back.

When Valjean dared to open his eyes again, his chest heaving, he found Javert sitting up, his hands raised, fingers tugging hard at his whiskers in frustration.

"Damn you," Javert muttered again, his breathing ragged. "Go to sleep. I told you you'd regret it if you moved as much as a finger tonight. Silence now. Sleep."

The quick, frightened thudding of his heart was the only sound Valjean heard as he obeyed, mortified and achingly lonely as he closed his eyes and tried to pretend that none of this had ever happened. And yet, despite his shame, his body was still alight with arousal. It pulsed through him with every rapid beat of his heart as he lay quietly in the darkness, listening for any sound Javert might make.

It took perhaps an hour or more until Javert settled back down in bed by his side. Javert was resting on his side, facing away from him; Valjean could not say whether Javert was still aroused. But even as Valjean finally drifted off to sleep once more, he could not help but remember what it had felt like to fall asleep pressed against his chainmate.

On those nights long ago, Boucard's arm had been heavy and warm around him, so that for those rare moments in the dark, the sounds of the hundreds of imprisoned men fell away. And for a short time, the comfort of warm skin against his own had made it easy to pretend that the torment and toil of daylight did not exist.

It was still dark when Valjean woke again, hours later. His throat felt parched, his chest strangely tight. In his dreams, he had remembered once more the moment when they had freed Boucard: the chain falling away that had bound him to Valjean for so long, the man who had been Valjean's sole companion in those months of torment led away by guards, never to return.

What had become of him? Once, a few weeks later, news arrived in Toulon that Boucard had made it to Bordeaux; he had sent a letter that urged Valjean to come and find him there when his own time was up.

How strange. Valjean had forgotten about that letter, and that invitation—but for the first few months following that letter, it was a thought he clung to, without much deliberation of how such a thing might be accomplished, but unable to give up contemplation of it altogether, like a moth that could not help but fly towards the dimmest light shining in a dark room.

By then, he had been long since chained to Gilbert instead, and with the fatality of the bagne, accepted his new chainmate's comforts too. But there had been a time when Valjean's mind, lost in darkness, had clung to the idea that his friend was somewhere out there, and that one day Valjean would escape too, and that, perhaps, there would be a kind soul waiting for him.

During the many years that followed, he had slowly but surely forgotten Boucard, as he had forgotten everything else that was not misery and hate. Now, something had reawakened those memories, and for all the many years that had passed since those moments, he suddenly saw Boucard's face with clarity once more.

He had possessed broad, callused hands, and a face rough with the stubble of a beard. Valjean remembered now the rasp of it against his neck. Boucard had never talked much, but he had been patient with Valjean in those first weeks, teaching him how to behave and how to move, which guards could be bribed and how, where one might acquire tools if one could pay, and how one could hide them.

Valjean exhaled, raising a trembling hand to his brow as if to wipe those memories away. He shifted—and there, in the gloom, he saw that Javert had turned during the night as well, and was now pressed against him once more. 

Javert's eyes gleamed in the darkness. Valjean swallowed, feeling unsettled and too warm when he realized that Javert was awake.

During the night, the bright flame of desire had turned to embers. Those same embers were still glowing in his stomach, and as he looked at Javert, he remembered the comfort of touch. Valjean was tired. His mind was still hazy with dreams. Beneath their blanket, it was warm, the mattress was soft, and the room was very quiet, as though they were the only people awake in the world.

He looked at Javert for a long moment, who returned his gaze but did not speak. Valjean could not quite read his expression, but there was no anger on Javert's face, and even the bristling whiskers and drawn brows seemed to spell out puzzlement rather than frustration.

His heart beating in his chest, Valjean slowly raised a hand to rest it on Javert's back. Then, just as slowly, he exhaled a deep breath and pushed himself against him.

Even in the warmth that had been trapped beneath the blanket, the heat of Javert's skin through the fabric of his shirt was a shock. Almost, it was enough to shake Valjean from that dim dream of remembered comfort—but then Javert's arm came around him, clutching him greedily to Javert's body, just as a groan escaped Javert's throat which he muffled against Valjean's hair.

Javert was hard—just as hard as Valjean, sliding against him deliciously firm and hot. The sensation made Valjean gasp. If he closed his eyes now, he could pretend that he was back in Toulon, held in the arms of a man he had not seen in twenty years... But Javert was not Boucard, and so he kept his eyes open as he gasped softly at every gentle thrust.

Javert's whiskers were rough against his cheek. Valjean could smell Javert's sweat, and the soap with which he had washed before going to bed. The man in his arms was unmistakably Javert. Even so Valjean could not fight the languidness that had taken control of his limbs, the sweet surrender that had him blindly press closer, his shaft rubbing against Javert as they slid against each other.

Javert was panting. Valjean could feel the heat of his breath against his ear. Then Javert bent his head, the roughness of whiskers and the strange softness of lips trailing heat across his skin, and just when a large hand wrapped around both of their pricks, Valjean felt Javert's teeth against his shoulder.

It only took a few strokes. No one had touched Valjean so in a long, long time. The heat that had him trembling in helpless, ecstatic surrender surged through him until he arched against Javert, squeezing his eyes shut and biting down onto his lips to keep himself from crying out. Wet heat spread between them, Javert's hand tightening. Valjean trembled as Javert groaned low against his shoulder, the sound low and rough like an animal in agony.

His heart racing and his limbs heavy with warmth, Valjean relaxed against Javert. At that moment, it seemed impossible to think. Everything had melted away. For a few precious heartbeats, he knew neither fear nor pain nor captivity, resting against a warm body that was still shuddering with the same ecstasy.

Javert's arm was heavy around them. Beneath his own fingertips, Valjean could feel the dampness of the sweat that had soaked into Javert's shirt.

At long last, still uncharacteristically silent, Javert shifted. Tired and content, Valjean opened his eyes to calmly look at him.

In the light of the moon that fell in through the window, he saw Javert half illuminated, half hidden in shadows, the ferocity of the tiger softened as he gazed down upon Valjean with drawn brows. Finally, still silent, Javert grabbed hold of a cloth to wipe his hand, and then he turned and drew the blanket up over himself once more, his body relaxing even though he had not said a word.

As his heartbeat slowed, silence filled the chamber once more. Valjean's eyes remained open, his body warm and at ease, pressed to Javert's side. Sweat was cooling on his body, and as the heat slowly left his limbs, he turned his head to look at the moon shining in through the window.

With a start, he realized that the window was open.

At the sight, a strange shock ran through him. Valjean blinked at it in dismay—surely it had been open all through the night, opened a crack to let in fresh air? But the truth was that Valjean did not remember. He had not paid attention to it as he entered the room.

There was no collar around Valjean's throat, no chain binding his limbs. For the first time in months, he was as free as he could be while in the possession of Javert—and Valjean had not once paid attention to doors or windows. Instead, he had taken what comfort he was offered with quiet gratitude, as though he was still in the bagne—as though there was nothing but despair beyond those fleeting moments of pleasure.

His heart suddenly beating in his throat, Valjean's gaze fell upon Javert once more. Javert was sleeping, undisturbed by this sudden revelation that threatened to shake Valjean to his core.

Did Javert know that he had brought Valjean to heel like a tame animal? Was Javert so certain that with some gentle treatment, Valjean would forget all about what it meant to be a free man?

Or worse—was this a test? Suddenly sick, Valjean now remembered that he had promised Javert that he would not flee. Valjean's offer had not been a ploy then. H had been weary to the bone, exhausted in both body and mind, desperate for rest—and desperate for comfort.

How easy it had been to give in to that need. Was that how it would be from now on? Would Valjean buy Javert's generosity in this way, giving himself to him every night, as though Javert was just like Boucard or Gilbert, a companion sharing his misery—when in truth, Javert had been his jailer all along?

Even now, Valjean's body was aching, his mind in turmoil.

How could he endanger what little measure of understanding had grown between them? No matter how much Javert might deny it, he saw him as a man now, as Jean Valjean... And perhaps, in time, that understanding might even grow into respect.

And yet, at the same time as Valjean thought of what opportunities for flight might arise later, his eyes kept being drawn towards the moon shining in through the window.

The house was completely silent. There were no chains on him, no ropes and no collar. Valjean had offered himself to Javert freely, and Cosette had been taken away from the inn-keepers who had mistreated her. Valjean had done all that was within his power. Surely no one could demand more from him, and his moments of surrender here in Javert's bed might be forgiven as a momentary weakness after the suffering of the past week.

Yet even so, it seemed to Valjean all of a sudden that with the cold light of the moon, a different gaze fell upon him. He shuddered as he beheld himself naked and pathetic beneath that heavenly gaze, all his weaknesses revealed to a merciless Judge who knew that Jean Valjean had put his craving for comfort and an embrace above the happiness of a child.


	40. Chapter 40

Javert had slept deeply, with no further dreams to disrupt his sleep. When he woke, it was to a strange feeling of pleasure—his limbs felt warm and heavy, and for a moment he was content simply to rest and enjoy the warm satisfaction that filled him.

A moment later, a memory stirred. At the same moment as he remembered the pleasure he had found with Valjean, a chilling awareness hit him: he was all alone in the small bed. There, beside him, where not too long ago Valjean had shuddered and gasped, his skin damp and hot as he gave himself over to Javert’s embrace, the space beneath the blanket was empty.

His heart thundering in his chest, Javert sat up. Then his eyes fell upon the window.

Outside, the first hints of dawn had appeared: the sky was flushing, pink and purple hues covering on the horizon as the sun prepared to rise. And yet, the majesty of the illuminated sky was not what had caught Javert's attention.

The window was open. Had Valjean escaped during the night?

Shock and outrage rushed through Javert. But even as he hastened towards the window in his shirt, a part of him still remembered the way Valjean had clung to him, the powerful body wet with sweat and yielding to Javert’s touch.

Had it been a ploy? It must have been, Javert told himself, although before his mind's eye, he could see the uncertainty in Valjean's face as he pressed himself close, and the way it had given way to overwhelmed ecstasy.

There was just enough light to make out the surroundings of the inn outside the window. Across the small, dirty courtyard, the stable stood, a ramshackle building that housed more horses than it usually did, due to the Thénardiers' flight from Montfermeil.

There was no light in the stable. The courtyard too was empty.

With an impotent growl, Javert turned on his heel, ready to search every room of the inn to find where Jean Valjean had hidden himself—but then his eyes fell onto the nightstand, and he was stopped in his tracks.

There, on the stained wood, rested two bank-notes. They had not been there when Javert had gone to sleep.

Slowly, as though a strange force had taken hold of him, Javert made his way forward. His fingers trembled as he took hold of the bills. He lifted them.

Sometime during the night, someone had left two hundred francs on his nightstand.

Javert laughed voicelessly, his mind reeling as he stared at the bank-notes.

Two hundred francs. The sum he had paid to purchase Valjean.

What did it mean? Valjean was gone, that much was obvious. Even now, Javert thought that he should raise an alarm. Valjean could not be far; Javert could easily catch up with him.

And yet, Javert could not tear his eyes from the money. Where had it come from? That question was easily answered: the money Valjean had retrieved from the forest. He must have hidden away a handful of bills in the lining of his shirt or trousers, as convicts were wont to do. That much did not pose a great surprise to Javert; indeed, he should have suspected such a thing and searched Jean Valjean.

Nevertheless, what kept Javert’s mind reeling was that he could not make sense of it. Had Jean Valjean believed that he could buy himself free of Javert, that Javert would not pursue Valjean if he returned his investment?

The thought made Javert bare his teeth. Impossible. No galley-slave could buy his own freedom. In any case, the purchase of Jean Valjean had brought many additional expenses with it, which the two hundred francs would not cover.

Was it, perhaps, a way for the convict to rid himself of his own guilt? Did Valjean believe that Javert would be beholden to him in some way, and thus would not pursue him?

Neither of these answers made sense, although to Javert it seemed that the money had gained a terrible heaviness, weighing him down as though he was holding a greater burden in his hands by far.

Hollow laughter escaped Javert. He raised one hand to tug at his whiskers, staring at the money with bafflement and growing confusion.

He should have run outside. He should be pursuing the fleeing convict. Why then did this money unsettle him so? Jean Valjean had meant nothing by it. The man was a convict, he had escaped, and that was all there was to it.

Suddenly, a motion in the corner of his eye caught Javert's attention. When he raised his head, he saw that it had grown even lighter outside the window. Now, as he watched, a shadow seemed to scurry through the rising gloom.

Javert did not need to step towards the window to know that the man and the burden he carried was no one else but Jean Valjean, carrying Cosette.

A moment later, Javert found himself on the stairs outside his room. With puzzled detachment, he realized that he was still wearing nothing but his shirt, although there was the familiar heaviness of a gun in his hand.

The inn was very silent. No one had woken when Valjean must have moved through the quiet house to steal Cosette from her bed. No one accosted Javert either.

A moment later, Javert had made his way outside. The air was cool and heavy with the scents of the night. Without thought, he turned to his left, the gun held tightly in his hand. Barefoot on cold grass that was damp with dew, Javert rushed forward. He turned the corner of the house. There, across the courtyard, the stable stood, but Javert ignored it. He hastened around another corner, the direction he had seen Valjean take not long ago. Here, a small garden grew, cabbages and herbs and beans sprawling across the soil.

And beyond that small garden, Jean Valjean was moving through the lifting gloom, striding quickly towards the forest that rose beyond.

“Valjean!” Javert called out.

At the shout, a shudder ran through Valjean. He stopped for a moment, turning his head to look at Javert. Javert could see the way his eyes widened when he saw the gun. The girl was clinging tightly to his hand; as Javert approached, Valjean moved in front of her, his face pale.

He did not speak when Javert stopped in front of him, and for some reason, Javert could not force a word from his throat either.

It seemed to Javert that the light of the rising sun was playing him some trick: he saw Valjean's face tense with urgency once more as he lowered his head, Valjean’s lips hot as a brand against his thigh as he sucked the poison from Javert’s veins. He saw this same face half hidden in shadows, slack with pleasure, all terror and fear gone as for a moment, Valjean shivered in his arms, overcome and yielding to the need that had driven them together.

Again Javert tried to speak, but only a groan would come out. Wild-eyed, he stared at Valjean, his hand clenching around the reassuringly solidity of the gun. His throat worked, but still he could not speak. All thought was gone. Some wildness had taken over instead, so that for a moment, he nearly thought himself returned to his dream, a creature of the night hunting down this man in a forest.

He raised the gun. Valjean remained silent, but after a moment, he took a step forward, until the gun was pressed against his chest.

Javert groaned again, his hand tightening in his whiskers.

“Curse you,” he finally forced out, his voice horrifically rough. “I should shoot, Jean Valjean.”

Valjean's chest was heaving—but strangely enough, Javert could not see any fear in his eyes, only a tired determination.

“You could have shot minutes ago,” Valjean said quietly. “Why haven't you, monsieur?”

Even now, he spoke politely. All of a sudden the sheer absurdity of the situation made Javert laugh, the sound horrible and rusty even in his own ears. He lowered his gun.

“Why the money?” he asked, staring straight into Valjean's eyes as if there he could find the answer to the mystery that continued to elude him.

Who was this man? What was he, to make the world tremble beneath Javert’s feet?

Valjean swallowed convulsively. “I wanted,” he began, his voice shaking. “Last night, I wanted... It was not because you bought me. I wanted comfort. It will mean nothing to you—but I was not a slave. I needed to know that you knew that, that’s why—”

“What! What is this?” Javert demanded incredulously, then raised a hand into his hair in frustration. “You are mad! You are…”

Javert fell silent, staring into the face of Jean Valjean, whom he had purchased, whom he had branded, and who looked at him now with the calm serenity of a martyr. “You think you can buy your freedom from me! Is that it?”

“No, monsieur.”

Once more Valjean’s expression caused something in Javert to tremble. Javert felt a strange ache—as though someone had stabbed a knife deep into cold, dead wood, only to find at its heart an impossible core of green.

“I know I cannot,” Valjean said softly. “Not in the eyes of the law. But I needed to know... I needed to know that I was free, if only in my own eyes.”

Javert stared at Valjean, unable to comprehend why it felt as though he had been given a blow to his chest with a bayonet. Valjean's words made no sense... And yet even now, instead of the pale, determined face of Jean Valjean, a slave on the run, he saw the gloom of the past night: a shadow filled with the warmth of another man’s body.

Nothing of what Valjean had said made sense. But somewhere deep inside Javert, something continued to ache, a fissure opening within rock, roots pulled free all of a sudden from the lightless soil in which they had buried eagerly for a lifetime.

It seemed to Javert now that some giant hand had reached out for him and pulled him into a blinding light. In the glare, he saw the man before him revealed with sudden clarity: the tired lines of Valjean’s face, the powerful body shielding the girl as it had shielded another child once from an ox, the strong arms that could have done harm during the night and which instead had hesitantly embraced the jailer in a quiet plea for comfort.

He thought again of what he could do to Jean Valjean for his rebellion. Valjean had wept when he had whipped his balls. Javert could do all he had threatened, and more. Valjean would not rebel again once Javert had broken him of all fight. Even now, there was a terrible pleasure to the thought.

Valjean straightened. “Monsieur, I do not doubt that we will meet again. But I promised the mother of this child that I would protect her and raise her.”

“And you think I will just let you go?” Javert asked, his voice trembling. Bewildered, he tried to raise the gun; he found that it was as heavy as stone, his arm refusing to do the work.

“Jean Valjean...”

“I know we will meet again, Inspector,” Valjean said quietly. He paused for a second, then drew in a trembling breath. “And then, I have no doubt that I shall be yours once more. When that day comes, you may punish me, as you have said you would.”

With those words, Valjean turned. Javert’s throat was working, but no sound came out. Mutely, Javert watched, taking note of the fact that Valjean made certain to keep his body between the gun and the child, shielding her as he walked into the forest looming before them.

In that moment when Jean Valjean stepped into the shadow beneath the boughs, Javert at last managed to raise his arm. For a heartbeat, the barrel of the gun was aimed at the convict's broad back. Even in the lifting darkness, the whiteness of Valjean's shirt stood out. Javert took aim. He tightened his finger around the trigger. The sightline was clear; Javert would not miss.

A terrible, desperate groan escaped his throat as he lowered the gun. Beneath him, the ground seemed to move; shaken, he raised one hand into his whiskers once more, tugging until the pain broke through the stupor that had overcome him.

Befuddled, he stared at his disobedient arm. As he watched, it rose once more. Satisfied, he noted that his limbs were still his to command—and yet his hand kept lifting the weapon until he found himself staring into the barrel of his own gun.

The metal gleamed in the pale rays of the morning sun. How easy it would have been to shoot Valjean. All it would have taken was to pull the trigger. It would have been over within a second.

His hand was shaking, Javert realized long moments later. The sun had risen above the horizon, shining down upon the beans and herbs growing in the inn's small garden. Wildly, Javert looked around.

The garden was silent, the courtyard abandoned. Jean Valjean was gone.

Another laugh escaped Javert. Then he realized that the gun was still pointing at his head. Bewildered, he lowered the weapon. He took a faltering step towards the forest, then stopped. He jerked backwards, taking a step towards the stable instead, but stopped dead in his track after a moment, as if he had run against an invisible wall.

Javert, that great hunter, who was feared by criminals great and small in Montreuil-sur-Mer, and who had served society faithfully since his earliest days as a guard in the bagne of Toulon, sank to his knees. There, he remained while the sun rose, staring at the forest before him into which the man had vanished who had overturned every certainty Javert had known.

It was not until an hour past sunset that Javert rose. Quietly, he walked back towards the inn. There, he ignored the scandalized questions of the proprietress. He dressed and saddled his horse, and then he turned its head north, leaving behind Villepinte—and leaving behind the forest into which Jean Valjean had vanished.


	41. Chapter 41

Paris had eagerly embraced Valjean and his small charge, swallowing him with the same voracity with which the city devoured thousands of criminals and convicts every year.

On the way to Paris, Valjean had stopped in the forest just long enough to unearth the fortune he had so hastily hidden; in the hands of a slave and former convict, even half a fortune was a blessing immeasurable, and so Valjean spent no time mourning the loss of the three hundred thousand that even now were on their way to the prosecutor in Arras. Let the man have the money Jean Valjean had honestly earned, although under a false name. Jean Valjean had found a greater treasure.

With every step he took away from Javert, his heart lifted. Cosette placed her small hand trustingly in his, and when she grew too tired and he had to carry her, her head rested on his shoulder as she slept. Wonder filled him, and it seemed to him all of a sudden as though he had come out from underneath a dark cloud. Had he truly thought just one day ago that there was no choice but to surrender to Javert?

Now, in the light of day, with Cosette’s trust wrapped around him like a blanket, his heart lifted, and the events of the past seemed just like a bad dream.

By the time they made it to Paris, Valjean had nearly managed to forget what had come to pass during the night. It had been a momentary weakness, he told himself; these things were to be expected, and surely a man chained and branded could be forgiven the fall into despair. But now he was free once more, the sun was shining down on him, he carried a fortune in his pocket, and he was responsible for the happiness of a young child.

The first night, they spent in an inn; Jean Valjean paid for a week, only to hastily flee with Cosette even before the sun rose, in order to obscure his trail.

Next, he proceeded to rent a room of the kind where the portress asked no questions. By this time, Valjean had managed to acquire new papers. Even so, he and Cosette left this new home within a day. This time, Valjean rented a quiet apartment in an old building. This house was called the Gorbeau tenement, and the portress had asked no questions but that of the rent.

The room was small and the walls dusty, but as Valjean watched Cosette sleep, for the first time, Valjean began to realize that he was truly free.

He had money. He had forged papers. As long as he kept his chest covered, no one could see the brand on his chest which even now proclaimed him Javert’s property. And Javert was in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Even if Javert had changed his mind and sent men after him, those would have lost his trail long since.

Jean Valjean was free.

Weeks passed. Jean Valjean did not leave the house until night fell, and the few times he left in broad daylight, it was never without a wig in his pocket, in case it should become necessary to escape the police with a quick disguise.

And yet no one ever called out his name. After a month had gone by and Javert had not grabbed him by the lapel, lunging at him from the shadows like a great, ferocious hound, Valjean began to breathe more freely. Almost it seemed to him now that what had come to pass between them had all been a dream, not unlike what had passed so many years ago in the bagne. Had Javert truly released him without shooting him? Had he rested in Javert’s arms, full of fevered heat, at peace in the wolf’s embrace if only for one treacherous night?

These thoughts returned to him from time to time, haunting him at night when the moon shone in through their small window and Valjean could not sleep. But as time passed and Javert did not come for him, these moments were rarer and rarer, until at last there came a time when the joy of Cosette’s company filled his heart to such an extent that there was no space left in it for fear or memories of what had been.

With their arrival in Paris, a change had come over Cosette as well. It had taken no more than a few days until she lost the fear that the Thénardiers would come for her, and in fact, the first time Valjean ventured out in the early morning towards a small market that sprung up in the Rue des Vignes Saint-Marcel every morning, it was to buy Cosette a doll that far surpassed the ragged toy the girl had cradled with such wonder in the inn in Villepinte.

This doll wore a dress of lace and had smooth, dark hair. Even as he returned from the market, Valjean’s heart was beating in his throat, imagining Javert’s eyes beneath every wide-brimmed hat, and a gendarme waiting in every shadowed corner. But no one called out his name, and no one grabbed his arm to stop him as he returned to their small apartment.

“I shall call her Catherine,” Cosette said, and from that day forth, she would spend the evenings entranced in play with the doll, while Valjean watched her, his heart feeling strangely light, as though some merciful hand had at last lifted a burden from his shoulders which had rested there for as long as he could remember.

Cosette had become his world in a few simple days. The mornings he spent teaching Cosette to read and write, and her quiet wonder at his kind attention and this life in which she was not supposed to work until her small hands ached, but was only encouraged to play and learn, soon made Valjean forget the hard benches of the bagne where he had learned to spell in the school of the Ignoratin friars, the chains ever weighing him down even as his mind learned to soar.

Valjean had already all but forgotten about what he had left behind when one day, in early autumn, he woke from a dream that left him unable to slip back into sleep. In his dream, there had been hands on his hip and rough hair against his neck. In his dream, he had been afraid, even as arms embraced him and hot breath warmed his skin. Valjean had not seen the man who had at last possessed him in a way that made him ache to cry out in the dark, but he had not needed to. The dread and the eager response of his body had been all too familiar.

Flushed and unsettled, Valjean rose and stepped towards the window. It was light outside; the sun had risen a while ago. Even as he drew back the curtain a little, he shuddered, remembering the touch of large, greedy hands clasping his hips, whiskers rough against the side of his face as Valjean surrendered himself.

His fingers tightened around the curtain. It was for the best that he had run. To Javert, he was a slave. He still bore Javert’s brand on his chest. Had he stayed, he would be chained in Javert’s bedroom right now. Perhaps, instead of the floor, he would have been allowed to sleep in Javert’s bed. Perhaps Javert would even have been kind, sparing him the chain.

But Valjean still would have been a slave, and everyone in Montreuil who looked at him would know it.

And Cosette…

Valjean’s eyes fell upon the alcove where Cosette slept. Once more his heart tightened until it ached, only to expand with overflowing love.

Impossible to imagine Cosette in that place. What life would she have led? For her sake, Valjean had done the right thing. For her sake, he had been forced to take her far away from Javert. Here, where no one knew him, Valjean could at last fulfill the promise he had made her mother. And Javert was far away now. The dreams meant nothing. In time, they would cease, and his body would forget that night of shameful surrender, as it had forgotten before.

Valjean released the curtain. Once more, a part of him thought of the warmth of Javert’s body, the solid weight of it as Javert moved against him. His hands trembling, Valjean drew the curtain back, then raised a hand to his face. But it was no use. The memories could not be wiped away, no matter how much he tried. And so, even though Valjean never ventured outside until after dark, on that particular, fateful day he left the apartment in the early morning.

In the shadows of Saint-Médard’s church he dropped coins into the hands of beggars. Above him, the walls of the church rose. Valjean knew that inside it would be quiet and cool. He could enter, make his way towards a small chapel and there kneel in prayer for half an hour, with no one taking notice of him. It would be a blessing to flee these haunting memories; surely such things would not dare to set foot into a church, and half an hour of meditation at the feet of the Virgin would leave him with his mind clearer and the nightmares banished back into the dark of the night, where they belonged. Cosette would surely still sleep a while; or, if she woke, assume that he had gone out to fetch milk or bread for their breakfast.

He hesitated as he passed by the church’s heavy door—but then some trick of fate brought the beggar waiting by the well into his sight, and he abandoned the church. Relief filled Valjean, although even now he yearned for the blessed quietness within. But surely it would be wrong to bring this thing in him into such a holy place; it was not a thing that could be confessed to a priest, and Valjean did not want the memories to follow him inside.

Instead, he made his way towards the beggar. The man was familiar: a former beadle of seventy-five years, whom Valjean had often passed, and never without dropping a few sous into his palm. He would do the same today, and then, perhaps, he would buy some bread to bring back. By the time Cosette woke, the shadows of the night would have long fled, and all memories of the past would be forgotten, making way for new memories—memories filled with Cosette’s quiet delight and the sound of her voice as she spelled out words.

Valjean halted. He reached into his pocket and drew out a coin. The old mendicant would often try to keep him for a conversation; today, Valjean was determined to hurry away, ever afraid the memories might catch up with him again if he tarried too long. Hastily, he reached down to drop the sou into the bowl.

At the sound, the beggar looked up.

Jean Valjean felt his heart stop as familiar eyes stared at him from beneath the beadle’s hat.

It was impossible. It could not be. His heart racing in his chest, Valjean found himself transported back to the night he yearned to forget. From beneath the large brim, the eyes of Javert looked at him, staring straight into his soul.

Valjean staggered. He could not form words. All of a sudden, he seemed to feel the weight of the collar around his throat once more. Instinctively, his hand rose to his chest, clutching the fabric over the place where the brand had been seared into his skin. It ached again, pulsing with heat the way it had not since Javert had last traced it with his fingers.

Valjean shuddered. For a moment, darkness intruded on his vision, his chest too tight to breathe. As though in a dream, he straightened, and then he turned and took first one step, and then another, pretending that nothing had come to pass while his blood roared in his ears. All of a sudden, the shadows around the church had grown more sinister. Were there agents of police hiding in those shadows even now? Would someone jump out and him and shout his name? Would Javert grasp his lapel and force him to his knees?

With sudden shock, Valjean realized that he had crossed the small square and entered the narrow street that led back to their apartment. No one had shouted his name. No one had come after him.

Could it be?

It must have been a trick of the light, he told himself as he stole into the old building. The dreams had unsettled him; in consequence, his eyes had shown him a ghost, turning the familiar figure of the old beadle into the memory of Javert.

But it could not have been Javert. Javert would not have let him escaped. Had it been Javert waiting for him in disguise at the well, those large hands would have shot out and grabbed his collar. Those same hands might have ripped his coat and his shirt, bearing the brand for the eyes of everyone in the square to see. Javert would have been triumphant; Javert would have come with a weapon, and with chains to put on him once more.

Javert would not have allowed him to leave. It could not have been Javert. Which meant that Jean Valjean was still free, that nothing had changed, that Javert was still in Montreuil-sur-Mer, and that Cosette was safe here with him in the Gorbeau tenement.

Dizzy, Valjean wiped the sweat from his brow before he stole into the small room he had rented. The curtain before the alcove was drawn. Cosette was still asleep. Through the window, light fell in; it was yet early.

Jean Valjean collapsed onto a chair, staring at the window. His heart was still racing in his chest, his mind showing him once more the familiar image: piercing eyes beneath a heavy brow, nostrils flaring like those of an animal scenting its prey, immense whiskers bristling…

But Valjean knew the old beggar. He had seen him at the well whenever Valjean visited the church. There was nothing extraordinary about that man; the nightmares had poisoned Valjean’s mind, and now he saw a threat where there was none. Surely it was that simple.

After all, he had once promised Javert that they would see each other again. And then, Javert would surely chain him once more, and Valjean would be beaten, all dignity stripped from him as he wept—and then, perhaps, Javert would take from him what he had not so far.

One day, that day would come. But it had not yet arrived, Valjean thought, looking towards the alcove once more when he heard the first sounds of Cosette stirring.

And if God was merciful, it would not happen for many years, until Cosette was grown and no longer in need of him. Had he not suffered enough? To ask for a few years of peace was not so much, not compared to what he had already gone through. And then, in the end, if they found him again, there would be more pain waiting for him.

But for now, there was Cosette.

Valjean watched as she rose, reaching out for the doll he had bought her. Even now, a smile of wonder appeared on her face as she saw him, as though she had not believed that he would still be there in the morning.

It was nearly enough to drive the memory of the unsettling encounter from his mind—but even so, he could not stop listening for any suspicious sounds in the house while Cosette began to read.


	42. Chapter 42

Jean Valjean.

When their eyes had met, there at the well, an indescribably feeling had shot through Javert—the sweet triumph of the hound about to sink its teeth into the doe at last, mingled with the righteousness of the avenging archangel descending from the heavens. For the span of one heartbeat, his blood had burned hot as lava inside his veins, and he had entertained the ecstasy of reaching out and grabbing Jean Valjean by the collar.

And then their eyes had met, and something about that gaze had scalded him. It was all he could do to remain motionless, accepting the coin that was dropped into his palm while every beat of his heart sent stabbing pain through his chest.

If he had thought the doubt, which had sent him into a strange madness there in Villepinte, a thing of the past, if he had thought himself returned to his former formidable self, Javert restored once more to irreproachability—if, in short, he had believed that aberration forgotten and put behind him, it was at this moment that he learned that this was not so.

Even though week after week had passed uneventfully since that baffling moment when he had allowed Jean Valjean to walk away from him, all it had taken was one look into Valjean’s eyes to find himself shaken to his core once more. All it would have taken at the well was to reach out, to speak Valjean’s name.

Instead, Javert remained silent, keeping up the guise of the old mendicant sitting by the well.

He had every reason to arrest Jean Valjean. Moreover, Jean Valjean was still his property. No one could have stopped him from closing a collar around that broad neck once more, from fastening a chain to it, from keeping a firm grip on Jean Valjean as he lead him away. Valjean knew it too. Although it was covered by his clothes, on his chest the _J_ still burned, proclaiming him Javert’s property for all the world to see, if Javert would just strip his shirt off him.

It was his right. Valjean had run from him; Javert had every reason to reach out, to strip Valjean, to take up the whip once more.

Even now a part of him unfurled with terrible fascination at the thought of Valjean’s back slick with sweat, the powerful body heaving as Javert laid down stripe after stripe until Valjean knew himself Javert’s once more.

And yet, even here, when some terrible thing within him had grappled with Valjean’s disappearance for so long, something held him back.

The fever that had possessed him had flared up once more; some terrible voice within him had told him that he could not take hold of this man, that he could not bring him to justice, that to see Valjean broken and destroyed would in truth mean the destruction of Javert.

In the small square, Javert had been confounded by the encounter, the ground shaking beneath him once more. When he at last succeeded in standing to follow this slave who had become his tormentor, Valjean had very nearly escaped him.

Of course, Valjean did not make it very far. Initially, Javert had been gripped by a strange uncertainty when he first heard the description of the old philanthropist who came to Saint-Médard. And now that he knew that it was Jean Valjean indeed, Javert had at the same time found his hiding place, for the informer, whose guise Javert had taken for this day, had not failed to supply him with the man’s address. Jean Valjean had found refuge in the Gorbeau tenement.

And that was where Javert went as well, once he had gotten rid of his disguise.

The Gorbeau tenement was a hovel of a house, frozen in that terrible state of a building long deserted to the forces of the elements. In the winter, the winds tore at it, ice blooming in cruel flowers on the windows of the poorest of its inhabitants, who could not afford to rent a room with a stove. In the summer, heat was trapped in the attic, baking the dirty walls, and those tenants in whose walls holes opened to other chambers or the corridor thought themselves lucky for the breeze this afforded.

Here Jean Valjean had found shelter with the girl from Montfermeil, and here Javert now followed, renting a room on the same level as Valjean.

By all rights, he should have clasped his hand around Valjean’s wrist and ended the game then and there at the well. It was his right. No doubt it was what Valjean had expected he would do. It was what any decent man with the law on his side would have done.

And yet Javert, too shaken by the sudden, unexpected sight of the abyss looming in front of him once more, had been unable to command his limbs to move, to grasp, the pincers rebelling against the spider, the claws abandoning the cat.

At the recollection, he rose from the broken straw-backed chair in his chamber and began to pace the small room in the Gorbeau house. How could this be? Had this fever not left his body yet?

After he had returned to Montreuil-sur-Mer, late and alone, the commissaire’s displeasure waiting for him, tempered only by the letter of commendation from Chabouillet, Javert had been unable to speak of what had happened. Javert had no friends or confidants; following the commissaire’s censure, which he bore quietly and with bowed head, Javert suddenly found himself telling the commissaire that Jean Valjean had been left in Paris, to earn his keep there.

Even now, the memory was unsettling; Javert had never before spoken untruth to a superior. He supposed there was a truth to those words, but clearly once the rumor spread, the inhabitants of Montreuil thought Jean Valjean left in one of those heavily guarded institutions where dangerous men labored in penitence, with his wages going to Javert. In fact, surely this was what Javert should have done: he had proved himself unable to keep Valjean contained, and the man was not to be trusted among the people of Montreuil. It would have been for the best. It would have been just—and it would have surely quelled the terrible doubt in Javert’s heart once and for all.

Instead, Valjean had broken his chain for the final time, and Javert had allowed it.

If it had been a momentary lapse of judgment, then certainly now the time had come to undo this mistake.

Troubled, Javert finally stepped out of his chamber. The corridor was quiet and dark. Surely the portress had settled down to sleep long ago.

Was Jean Valjean asleep as well, unaware that hours ago, he had looked into Javert’s eyes, feeling safe and secure despite the fact that only a thin wall was parting him from the man who still held his chains in his hand? Or was Valjean within, awake and enveloped by terror, pressing himself against the door, his face pale and his chest heaving?

Javert remembered well the sensation: the way that strong heart would shudder beneath his touch when his fingers traced the outline of the brand, the man’s breast bared to him, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Silently, Javert stared at the door. There was no light shining from the keyhole. All of a sudden, the awareness of the absurdity of the situation came crashing over him. He could raise his hand now and knock on that door. Just like that, this long game of cat and mouse could be over. What would Valjean say? What would he look like? Would there be fear in his eyes, or weary surrender?

If Javert had thought about such a moment in the months preceding this encounter, the time had now come to make an end of such fantasies. Javert was here, and there, beyond that door, was Jean Valjean: the man who was his property still, the slave who had dared escape from him. It was very easy. There should be no doubt in his heart at all. Javert had a pistol; Javert had his handcuffs. He had waited a long time.

It had to end here.

Javert found that he could not move as he looked at the door.

It seemed to him that a long time passed. The moon had to be moving across the night sky as he waited; outside, everything was quiet. The lamps had been lit long ago. Inside the house, everyone had gone to sleep.

For a moment, Javert thought himself asleep as well, caught in some strange dream.

Then, slowly, the door opened.

The man who stepped outside was pale, dressed only in his shirtsleeves. Javert’s breath caught in his throat.

In the pale light of the moon that fell in through a window, Valjean’s shirt shone. He wore no cravat; his throat was bare. Javert could not tear his eyes away from the naked, vulnerable skin, remembering the iron that had encircled it, and the way Valjean’s pulse had throbbed hot and fast at the brush of his fingers there.

Valjean did not speak. Quietly, he drew the door closed after himself. Then they looked at each other, slave and master, convict and inspector, held once more now in one of those silent, weightless moments that appeared to Javert like a dream: a moment where one might float in some strange universe where order did not exist, and where two such unlikely men might encounter each other as equals.

Then, finally, Valjean spoke.

“So it was you.” Valjean’s voice was soft, and very weary. His shoulders were bent, as though he had been forced to shoulder a familiar, terrible burden.

“Did you think you could run from me forever?” There was no anger or triumph that filled Javert as he looked at Valjean. Instead, to his great surprise, all he felt was a quiet curiosity.

Valjean straightened. He shook his head. “I told you, I knew that in the end, you would find me. But I thought… I wished… that it would take longer than this.”

Javert looked Valjean up and down. Was Valjean afraid? Would his heart pound even now if he reached out to press his hand to his chest? “What do you think I will do?”

“You did not shoot,” Valjean said. “There, in the garden. You did not shoot me. You let me go.”

Javert scoffed, although within, a tremor ran through his heart once more. “Anyone might make a mistake once.”

“Was it a mistake?” Valjean said softy. “Have you come now to chain me and beat me?”

“I could.” Another painful stab ran through Javert’s heart. “I have every right.”

“I know that, monsieur.” In the gloom, his eyes were dark like a bottomless well at midnight.

Driven by some strange force, Javert reached out. He pressed his fingers to Valjean’s breast, splaying his fingers across the hard muscle, beneath which the powerful heart was now shuddering in response. Through the fabric of the shirt, Javert’s thumb traced a _J_ onto Valjean’s chest.

Valjean swallowed convulsively. “Will you beat me until I weep and beg for mercy?”

Javert drew in a sudden breath, another stab of heat unfurling in his stomach at the memory of Valjean trembling before him, the strong back crossed by lines of red. Thickly, he said, “What do you think I should do with you? Now, here?”

Before him, Valjean trembled, and Javert found himself taking a step closer so that they stood chest to chest, Valjean’s back pressed against the wall.

“There is the girl, Inspector Javert,” Valjean began.

Through the shirt, Javert had now found the hard nub of an erect nipple, circling it with the pad of his thumb as Valjean’s mouth parted.

“I do not care about the girl,” Javert muttered. He pressed down with his nail instead, just to see Valjean’s throat work as he bit back a sound, his back arching instinctively towards Javert.

“You are still mine in the eyes of the law. You always will be. _This_ chain you cannot throw off, Jean Valjean.”

“I know, monsieur.” Valjean was breathing heavily, his eyes dark and gleaming as Javert circled his nipple once more. “Why did you let me go?”

“That was not what I asked you.” Javert felt lightheaded. It seemed impossible to stand here, feeling the trembling of the powerful body that was at his mercy once more.

“What would you ask of me?”

“What would you offer?” Javert felt entranced by the way Valjean’s body had kindled with heat beneath his touch.

Fevered, he pulled Valjean’s shirt free, then pushed his hand beneath the fabric. Valjean flinched as if scalded when Javert’s hand touched his skin, a sound breaking free from his lips when Javert’s fingers found the letter burned onto his chest.

Slowly, Javert’s fingers traced along the curve of the brand, leaning closer still so that even in the darkness, he could see Valjean’s eyes widen. Once more, Javert remembered the heat of Valjean’s body against his own, the pleasing heaviness of his limbs as he had trembled against Javert, the weight of his prick in his hand as Javert had stroked them together through the madness that had burned through them that night…

“I would let you have me,” Valjean gasped. “I would give you everything I’ve offered before.”

“To placate me? Because you want to make a deal, Jean Valjean? Because you have found how easy it is to confuse Javert?” There was something fierce in Javert now, a sudden anger threatening to break free when he thought of how he had let Jean Valjean go.

Had he truly allowed this man to ruin him? Had this man done the impossible and forced Javert to release one he knew guilty and enslaved in the eyes of the law?

Javert’s fingers had found the hard nipple again. He plucked at it with two fingers, pinching the small nub as if to see the same pain on Jean Valjean’s face—but instead Valjean shuddered again, his eyes sliding half-closed. And there, against Javert’s thigh, he could feel the damning evidence of Valjean’s prick, which had come to life at his touch.

“No.” Sweat was beading Valjean’s forehead. “What you say is true. I’m yours either way. But I want… If that is what you offer… A moment of comfort. To feel a kind touch, just once, before you chain me again.”

Javert’s nostrils flared. Between his own legs, his arousal throbbed heavy and sharp. “And you think that I will be kind?” he muttered, a laugh threatening to break free from his throat.

Just then, the clouds shifted outside, a breeze coming in through the half-open window, and for no reason that Javert could discern, he found himself suddenly pressed against Jean Valjean, his hand between the man’s legs, stroking the outline of Valjean’s arousal through his trousers, and his mouth—his mouth was hungrily pressed to Valjean’s own, although Javert had never done such a thing before.


	43. Chapter 43

Betimes, Jean Valjean had found himself thinking of Javert. The threat of capture was ever present, although as the weeks passed, it had moved further and further from his mind. Every now and then, like a strange flash of lightning illuminating moments which were difficult to accept as real even now, he remembered the feeling of Javert’s thigh beneath his hand as Thénardier passed in the distance, or Javert’s cautious eyes watching him over a bowl of mutton stew.

Yet rarer, and yet more upsetting, were the moments when Valjean shuddered awake at night, the memory of Javert’s touch burning on his skin. Perhaps, as the years passed, he might have forgotten them altogether, as he had forgotten the moments of comfort in the bagne. Certainly Javert’s touch on his fevered skin could be no more than a nightmare, a specter risen from memories of torment; certainly the way he himself had trembled and pressed himself against Javert in the darkness was some shadow of his own mind, which, if left in peace, would have sunk and vanished once more into the darkness from which it had sprung.

Nothing had prepared him for the sensation of Javert’s lips against his own.

It was as if a madness had taken hold of him. His throat was tight, his heart pounding in his chest, every fiber of his being aware of the danger he was in—and yet his limbs ceased to obey him as Javert pressed him against the wall, Javert’s mouth hot and urgent, devouring him with a kiss that seemed to have driven all reason from his mind.

Dizzy, overcome, Valjean found himself clutching at Javert’s shoulders, a groan breaking free from his throat. Javert’s tongue slid into his mouth, wet and eager as Javert’s teeth caught on his lip.

Long moments later, Valjean’s heart was racing as though Javert had hunted him through the streets of Paris. Yet neither of them had moved a single step. The corridor was still quiet and dark. There was no one else awake in the entire building.

Even in the shadow that filled the hallway, Valjean could see the heat that filled Javert’s eyes. He had seen him like this before—once before, that final night. There had been that one impossible moment when Valjean had pressed himself against Javert, and for the span of a few heartbeats, Valjean had been able to pretend that the chains on his soul did not exist, that he could find the same comfort with Javert which he had known once before, long ago.

Javert’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. For a moment, he did not speak. They looked at each other. Then Javert swallowed. He reached out, and, whether by accident or intentionally, his fingers brushed Valjean’s cheek.

“Yes,” Javert murmured fiercely, his voice hoarse. “Yes.”

Javert had rented a room close to Valjean’s own chamber, at the other end of the long, dark corridor. Valjean’s heart was racing as he followed Javert towards that beckoning door. In their own room, Cosette was fast asleep in her bed in the little alcove. Even now, Valjean could not quite understand why he had offered what he did.

Of course, he would do whatever it took to keep Cosette safe. And yet, had Javert not often taken care to reassure him that he would not accept any deal Valjean might seek to make, that he could not be bribed?

At the same time, the memory of Javert warm and solid against his body was real, as was the moment when Javert had pressed his gun against Valjean’s chest—and chose to allow him to walk away.

Would Valjean be allowed to walk away once more? Did Javert truly still desire to see him chained and subdued?

Then they stumbled into Javert’s room together, heat and terror twisting once more within Valjean as he found himself on Javert’s bed. For so many weeks—months, even—he had dreaded that this very thing might come to pass.

Now, when he looked at Javert in the sparse moonlight that fell in, a trace of the terror was still there. But at the same time, deep within, heat unfurled, the memory of Javert’s hands on him, and beyond it, like a faded mirror, innumerable memories of other hands on him: Boucard’s large hands, Gilbert’s low laughter, the relief of Jacques-Louis’ warmth in a cold night.

Perhaps Javert had been right: this had been a part of him all along. It could not be left behind. And, in the end, was it so strange that, having once known comfort and touch, a body should crave it once more?

Even if he were sent back to the bagne tomorrow, or chained and sent to labor elsewhere, now that the worst had come to pass, Valjean found that he was weary. He had dreaded this very thing for so very long. To have it happen would be a relief. And to feel a touch, after these long years of solitude… To feel a touch once more would be a relief, too.

Quietly, well aware of Javert’s eyes on him, Valjean drew off his clothes. Once, Javert made a low sound; Valjean flushed, his branded chest bared to Javert’s hungry gaze. How often had he stripped in the bagne, his body exposed to the uncaring eyes of guards? It should not matter to him anymore, and yet, to feel Javert’s gaze was nearly more than he could bear.

Then Javert too began to strip. Javert was erect, his member thick and heavy with blood between his legs, and as he came towards the bed, another shudder ran through Valjean.

It was about to happen. Javert would have him, as others had possessed him in the bagne. This time, there would be no excuses, no blame, no furtive touches beneath blankets.

The thought of Javert seeing him like this sent a new wave of dread through him, heat rushing to his face even as a more traitorous heat pooled between his own legs. But there was no use in shame, he told himself; and had Javert not seen it all before?

Deliberately, Valjean reached out for the lamp on the nightstand. The oil was low; still, it was enough to slicken his fingers. His hand trembled as he reached out for Javert.

Javert’s prick was hot. Valjean drew in another shallow breath as his fingers curled around Javert’s length.

Then Javert moaned, low and almost shocked, his hips coming forward instinctively. Suddenly they were tangled together on the bed, Javert’s teeth sharp against his shoulder as Valjean’s fingers smoothed oil all over Javert’s prick.

He felt like a fever had taken hold of him, some strange dream in which Javert had taken the part of men who had once treated him with kindness—Javert, who scoffed at kindness, Javert, who still held his chains in the eyes of the law.

But there were no chains on Valjean now, and the eyes of the law were closed and turned away that night as they came together.

Javert’s fingers splayed against his thighs. Valjean allowed his legs to be spread further, his heart racing as Javert moved over him.

It was not like the bagne at all, where they had been constrained by chains and darkness and the men pressing against them from all sides. This was different.

Javert had lit a lamp, and there was enough light for Valjean to see what was happening. Even if Valjean had wanted to pretend that it was one of the men he had known in the bagne, such a thing would have been impossible. It was Javert who covered him with his body, Javert whose skin slid slick with sweat against his own, Javert whose eyes were frantic and wild.

Valjean’s fingers clenched around the sheets. His heartbeat was echoing in his ears. But even now, he was aroused, his own prick heavy and hot on his stomach as Javert moved between his thighs.

And then Javert pushed in.

Valjean’s lips parted. Despite the oil, there was an ache, but he had borne much worse in his life. Javert was groaning. Valjean could feel Javert’s breath hot and fast against his cheek—and then Javert slid in deeper, and pleasure shot through Valjean, white and fierce like a flash of lightning.

Distantly, he heard himself moan, his thighs splaying open wider as he arched towards Javert.

He had forgotten how it felt. In the bagne, it had always been good; there had been pleasure and closeness, the only warmth a convict could find.

But here, with no chains on them, with the freedom to move as they liked, and to make it last for as long as they desired, the remembered pleasure seemed to have increased tenfold, until Valjean found himself clutching at Javert’s shoulders, his thighs trembling as Javert groaned desperately and drove into him again and again.

Valjean felt full, splayed open; all the secret parts of him that were soft and vulnerable now bared to Javert, filled and possessed with rough strokes by Javert’s hardness. With every stroke of Javert’s prick, sparks of pleasure raced up his spine until Valjean found himself squeezing his eyes shut, tears dripping from them as he clutched at Javert, the pleasure so intense it was nearly pain to bear it.

He could not last; it was impossible, it was too much. Another moan escaped him as he wrapped his fingers around his testes, stroking himself in time to Javert’s thrusts. Every motion of Javert inside him made his thighs tremble. The pressure was nearly unbearable; he could not remember when he had last felt like this.

Even now, he barely dared to raise his eyes to look at Javert. But at the same time, the pleasure was relentless, and his body had been starved of it for too long. Year after year, he had made do without touches, until he had thought that his body had forgotten all about the desires that once made the bagne nights bearable.

But his body had not forgotten. It had woken eagerly to Javert’s touch, ravenous and greedy, the intensity of his need frightening. Every long slide of Javert’s shaft inside him sent a stab of unbearable heat through him, so that he had to tighten his fingers around himself, fighting to keep his control.

And then Javert’s hand brushed against his own.

Shocked, Valjean pulled his hand back. His chest was slick with sweat; when he finally met Javert’s eyes, he saw that Javert’s skin was glistening as well.

Javert’s eyes were dark, his jaw tightly clenched. Valjean trembled as Javert’s thumb stroked over his pouch. Then Javert applied gentle pressure, and what control had remained to Valjean slipped away as he moaned and arched towards the tormenting hand.

Javert was panting, the sound of it loud in the quiet room. Once more he pushed inside, bringing forth a new surge of lightning inside Valjean. At the same time, his hand closed down around Valjean’s testicles.

They ached in Javert’s hand, full and heavy. Valjean shivered, his body remembering the ache of Javert tightening his fingers, squeezing where he was most vulnerable. But this time, Javert did not squeeze down.

His fingers applied just enough pressure to make Valjean aware of the ache of his fullness. Valjean’s prick felt very heavy. It rested on his stomach, swollen and tight. Then Javert thrust into him again, his thumb rubbing gently against a taut ball, and a helpless cry escaped Valjean.

“You like this,” Javert said hoarsely, his fingers rubbing against a ball again so that there was no doubt what he meant. “You like—“

With a sobbed moan, Valjean reached down to run his fingers over his shaft.

He could not keep his eyes open anymore. It was too much. The pressure of Javert within him, the warm, aching pull of Javert’s fingers on his balls, the heat inside him that grew and grew—it was like a wave crashing over him.

Even as he gasped for breath, his body arched helplessly towards Javert as every muscle in his body seemed to tense. Pleasure rushed through him, fierce and hot. His balls tightened in Javert’s hand as his release splashed onto his stomach, Javert’s groan of completion hot against his ear as Javert’s hips came forward, again and again.

When it was over, Valjean’s muscles ached as though he had run for hours. His mind was a haze of weariness and contentment. He could not think; he could only breathe, his heart still pounding in his chest, as his body slowly began to relax.

Gradually, he became aware of the sensation of Javert’s lips against his ear, and the roughness of Javert’s whiskers against his chin. Javert was wet with sweat, the skin damp where Valjean still clutched at him.

He ached a little. There had been oil, which was a rare commodity in the bagne, but even so it had been years since his body had been made to yield in such a way.

Still, the exhaustion was good, the aftermath of pleasure familiar and wondrous alike: to hold another person in his arms, to feel the beating of a heart against his chest, to be allowed to believe, if only for a moment, that he was not alone, that there was comfort for him even in the greatest darkness.

Then, as the minutes passed and the sweat cooled on his body, little by little the awareness returned that it was Javert he was embracing.

His whiskers were coarse against Valjean’s skin. The scent of Javert’s sweat was familiar; it brought with it the memory of chains, and of the swaying motion of a horse. Javert’s hands were large—but, for now at least, they were relaxed. They did not reach out to grab him. They rested almost gently on his thigh, callused but warm.

At last, with a little groan, Javert shifted. Valjean flushed when he felt his softening prick slip out of him. When Valjean tentatively turned his head, he saw that Javert was watching him—Javert, that merciless hunter, was resting his head on the same cushion, and although there was a line of tension between his brows, his gaze was puzzled.


	44. Chapter 44

Javert could not take his eyes off Valjean. He had told himself, during those moments when he had still been capable of thought, that this was a debt he was claiming, that this was a bargain Jean Valjean was trying to make, that this broad, scarred body belonged to him—and that taking possession of it was worth of no more consideration than opening a book or pulling on his coat. Yet all these thoughts had vanished like mist in the light of the morning sun when he saw Jean Valjean vulnerable and bare beneath him.

Javert’s heart, this traitorous thing that had burned with greed at the thought of possessing Jean Valjean whole, had pounded with ravenous hunger until there had been no thought left but the need to cover Valjean’s body with his own.

To draw his hands along those powerful thighs, to feel them quiver as he made them stretch further, to see Valjean exposed and bare beneath him—that was an ecstasy he had never known before. And then—the unimaginable! To bury himself to the hilt inside the tight body, to feel Valjean’s warm flesh yield to him, to be held in a tight embrace within Valjean—all these were things he had never known, and now that he experienced them, unimaginable pleasure burned through him like wildfire.

But the sweetest thing of all—the most damning thing of all—was to see the change that came over Valjean every time Javert pushed inside him. There was pleasure in it for Valjean. A change came over his body: a moan escaped him and he arched. And Javert, who had branded this man with his own initial, who had chained him and held him by the collar, knew himself at last holding Valjean in truth, by nothing but the power of the pleasure he was causing.

“Jean Valjean,” Javert’s brows drew together as he rested by Valjean’s side, his heartbeat slowly calming. “I did not think…” 

Javert fell silent, gazing at the flushed, damp skin, on which small pools of Valjean’s spend were drying. “You enjoyed this.”

It was not what he had meant to say, but he supposed it was all the same.

“I never denied it.” Valjean’s flush deepened, but he did not look away. “I told you, right from the beginning.

“Shameless,” Javert murmured, but there was no feeling behind it.

He thought of what else he could say; it would drive the flush from Valjean’s face. And yet, all of a sudden it was harder to speak cruel words. Would he not condemn himself as well as Valjean now?

“How long has it been?” Javert asked to distract himself from the direction his thoughts were taking.

“Since…?” Valjean gave him a tired, uncomprehending look. A moment later, his brow furrowed. “Oh. You know it, monsieur. Not since the bagne and…” He swallowed. “Not for a long time.”

Javert felt strangely restless. He could feel the heat of Valjean’s skin against his own. Every breath Valjean took made his body shift against Javert’s. How strange it was to rest so against Valjean, and to do so without suspicion, or chains to bind Valjean. They had rested like this before, on the journey to Montreuil—but never like this.

His hand was still resting on Valjean’s hip. He drew it upwards a little; then, to prove that he could do it, trailed his fingers over Valjean’s balls.

“And how long since you touched yourself?” Javert did not know where these questions came from, only now that he had thought of it, it was hard to forget it. That image of Jean Valjean, chained in his bed, his prick flushed and obscenely hard against his stomach as Javert pulled away the blanket, had remained with him all this time.

“I did not... I have…” Valjean faltered, shivering a little. “Does it matter, monsieur?”

“Still so polite,” Javert muttered, imagining once more how Valjean would gasp in pain if he squeezed down hard now.

Instead, Javert curled his fingers lightly around the full pouch, watching as the muscles in Valjean’s thighs twitched. Idly, Javert manipulated one of the globes with the pad of his thumb, feeling a strange satisfaction at the overwhelmed groan this earned him.

“I suppose it does not. Still. These belong to me, as much as the rest of you.”

“I know that,” Valjean said calmly, even though his brow gleamed with sweat, his eyes half-lidded as he let Javert touch him.

“Do you?” Javert barked a short laugh as he finally released Valjean, only to shift, leaning over the man stretched out beneath him. “Do you truly? I wonder, Valjean. Why then did you run?”

Valjean exhaled. For some strange reason, even though a tension had returned to him at Javert’s touch, there seemed to be no fear.

“You know why.”

“Then why are you here?” Javert released Valjean’s balls at last to slide his hand up and down the muscled thigh instead.

“Why are _you_ here?” Valjean countered.

Frustrated, Javert bared his teeth. “Is now the moment you will offer me a deal? Will you tell me now that—”

“This is not so bad, is it?” Valjean said quietly, although now, there was a small amount of despair in his voice. “I have harmed no one. I have kept Cosette safe. She has food and clean clothes, and I am teaching her to read. Sometimes I go to Saint-Médard—but you know that. That is how you found me.”

“The strange philanthropist, the rich man who looks like a beggar and still drops a sou into every open palm,” Javert said with a scoff. “Of course I wondered if it was you.”

Valjean swallowed. Entranced, Javert watched the way the sinews moved beneath his skin.

“Were I dangerous—were I the man I was, long ago,” Valjean said quietly, “would you not have followed rumors of crime instead? You know who I am. That is how you found me.”

Taken aback, Javert stared at him. It was befuddling to rest here with Valjean pressed against his side, all warm, damp skin and eyes that should be guarded, but which were instead gazing at him with only weariness.

“I have cared well for Cosette,” Valjean continued in despair. “She needs a home. I am teaching her to read. I—”

“She was to learn to work,” Javert ground out. Then, to his utter mortification, he realized that his hand was still greedily rubbing up and down Valjean’s hip, kneading the powerful muscles.

Valjean’s eyes were dark. Javert could not look away. They were still so close that he would only need to lean forward a little to press his lips to Valjean’s mouth once more.

At the thought, a part of him tightened with sudden hunger. It seemed lunacy to even consider such a thing—kissing Jean Valjean, a convict!—but his body did not care about the order of society, about the laws that kept everything in its place. The part of him that was as ravenous as a starving tiger remembered only the way he had bit at Valjean’s mouth, the taste and the heat of him.

“I have taken care of her,” Valjean said. A trembling hand came to rest against Javert’s chest. “I would… Please, you must let me explain—”

“That you are a good man? That you are kind, compassionate; that you, a convict, are to care for a child that was to be taught the value of honest work? That… that I, Javert, am wrong; that you are in the right; that good is bad and that you have toppled the very pillars of society and that we are standing here in the ruins of what was; that I am to believe you, that I am… that you are…”

Javert broke off, staring at Valjean as he panted for air, his body trembling. He could not breathe. Jean Valjean, though naked and defiled by his own hands, looked at him from wide, dark eyes. His brow gleamed with sweat; all of a sudden, Javert beheld that gleam increase in force until it seemed to him that he would be swallowed by it, a blinding light that had burned away whatever shadows had watched in this room as they came together in shameful secrecy.

Then the light fell away, and Javert could see clearly once more. It was only Jean Valjean he beheld. Valjean, the convict, whom he had known for many years, his hair turned white since Arras. It reflected the light. There was no halo, no voice telling him that he, Javert, was in the wrong, that a convict was a good man, that the law held no answers.

Everything was as quiet as it had been. There was only the rise and fall of Valjean’s chest, and the questioning expression in his eyes.

“That is well. That is all very well,” Javert said, and then he laughed, nearly shuddering himself at the horrible echo this made in the small chamber.

“I know what I am,” Valjean said quietly, his eyes lowering as his cheeks heated with something that almost seemed shame.

Slowly, Valjean took hold of Javert’s hand, and then pressed it to his own chest, to where the lines of the letter _J_ had been seared into his skin.

“But even so, even so… A man such as me might come to love a child, to want to see it cherished and taught her letters and raised with goodness.”

Javert snorted. “Goodness,” he muttered. “Still your talk of kindness, of… of love, and…” He fell silent, clenching his jaw. His hand was still pressed to the brand, Valjean’s hand atop his own. Beneath his fingers, Valjean’s heart was pounding.

Valjean’s eyes were unguarded. The earlier release had softened him, but now lines of tension had returned around his mouth. Nevertheless, he met Javert’s eyes without flinching away, his heart thudding against Javert’s hand. There were no barriers between them; their sweaty, naked bodies were still pressed together, and even now Javert could remember the heat of Valjean’s core, the euphoria of holding in his hands the key to the ecstasy that made Valjean tremble beneath him.

“What do you want of me, Jean Valjean?” Javert said quietly. “Name it. Let’s play no more games. Let’s have it out in the open. A pardon? A release? Freedom?”

Beneath his hand, Valjean’s heart sped up.

“Let me prove myself to you,” Valjean replied. “Let me keep caring for the girl. Let us… let us continue as we were before. What harm can it do? I know I cannot run far. You found me once, you’ll find me again. But if I speak the truth, then there’s no harm done, and you’ll see for yourself whether I can be trusted.”

Javert laughed once, then swallowed the sound. His head ached. Something was pounding behind his temples, pounding with the same rhythm as the heart beneath his hand. “Trusted,” he muttered, baring his teeth. “Madness. Madness, that’s what this is, and I—”

Abruptly, he stopped. The words had gotten stuck in his throat. He could not force them out, no matter how he tried.

Instead, driven by a sudden surge of the same reckless wildness that had taken possession of him before, he rolled them over. His prick dragged over Valjean’s heated skin. He ground his teeth to ignore the sensation, staring down into Valjean’s eyes.

They were wide—wide and fearful. But at the same time, there was a challenge in them, and Javert bared his teeth at it, growling like a tiger about to attack.

Then his mouth was on Valjean’s once more, savage and ravenous, panting as he slid his tongue against Valjean’s. For a moment, for a long, blessed moment, his mind was quiet.

Then he became aware once more of the way Valjean had yielded in turn, his body relaxing against his own as his hands slid up Javert’s shoulders.

Dizzy, Javert pulled his head back, panting as he looked down at Valjean like a wolf at its kill.

“It won’t… I won’t make a deal,” Javert forced out.

“Does it have to be a deal?” After a moment, Valjean’s hands fell away from his shoulders. “Is it not possible to simply… go on? The child is happy here, and I—”

“And you?” Javert had to resist the urge to snarl again. “Are you _happy_ then?”

For a moment, Valjean looked uncomfortable, and Javert wondered whether now had come the time that Valjean would push him off. Instead, after a moment, Valjean exhaled.

“I am,” he admitted so softly it was hard to make out the words. “With Cosette to care for… I have been happy here these past weeks.”

“And you think it can simply… stay that way?” Javert asked in disbelief.

Again Valjean’s chest rose and fell against his own as Valjean looked at him. “It could. It could,” he said again, as if to convince himself as much as Javert. “For what reason couldn’t it?”

Javert’s mouth opened, but he could think of nothing to say.

As strange as it seemed—but Jean Valjean was right. If Javert desired to let things continue as they were, then nothing untoward had happened in the eyes of the law. It was Javert, and only Javert, who decided where both child and man went.

If Javert desired such an arrangement, then that was how it should be.

“And you will—what. Be content with the _comfort_ I offer?”

Now Valjean flushed. Javert could see the muscles of his arm twitch, as though Valjean wanted to reach out for the sheet to finally cover himself.

Deliberate, Javert drew a hand down Valjean’s bare chest.

“Comfort,” Javert said. He had meant to speak the word with derision; instead, it had come out with a desperation that made him jerk back, averting his eyes from Valjean’s face.

He moved to sit up, burying a hand in his whiskers as he bared his teeth at the strange emotions threatening to rise up and overwhelm him once more.

“Very well,” he muttered, “very well. It’s all the same to me.”


	45. Chapter 45

The wind was blowing withered leaves through the street as Valjean made his way back from Saint-Médard with Cosette by his side, holding on to his hand. He had bought her a woolen coat—the fabric was clean and warm, but discreetly mended in places.

Javert had not asked where he had found the money to flee to Paris and rent a room. Given the cheapness of their lodgings in the Gorbeau hovel and Valjean’s guise as a humble father down on his luck, Javert had no reason to suspect that Valjean had retrieved the three hundred thousand francs from where he had hidden them in the forest.

For all Valjean knew, Javert suspected him of having hidden a hundred-franc bill in his coat when Javert was delirious from the poison. The assumption suited Valjean.

He had, of course, hidden the money anew, burying it once more in a sturdy box with chestnut shavings and waxed cloth to protect it from any dampness. For his new life with Cosette in Paris, he had kept several thousand-franc bank-bills and sewed them into the lining of his coat.

Now, with Javert so close, he had opened those seams again, hiding most of the bank-notes beneath a loose wooden board, and sewing one bank-note each into Cosette’s coats and his trousers. One night, when Cosette was asleep, he took half the money from his hiding place beneath the wooden floor. Then, he carefully took her doll Catherine apart, hiding the rolled up notes within the doll’s body before he affixed the head of the puppet again.

This way, Valjean had done what he could to prepare in case things should go amiss. Were he forced to flee with Cosette, there would be money.

And yet, for now the days passed peacefully enough.

A strange thing it was, to live door by door with Javert. Even stranger were the days when Javert would come to visit them.

To sit at their table, to teach Cosette her letters, and do all that with Javert’s tall, intimidating figure watching over the proceedings was unsettling. Yet even so, Javert seemed content to watch, offering no commentary. It was true what he had said, Valjean thought; Javert truly did not care what happened to Cosette, nor could he feel what Valjean felt: that unshakable, overwhelmed love that had blossomed within him the first time Cosette’s small hand had rested in his own.

Nevertheless, Javert had been given a certain responsibility by the justice of the peace of Montfermeil, and Javert cared at least insomuch as that he desired to see the girl raised to honest work.

It was not much—had not her own mother tried to earn her living with honest work, and had not society failed her even so?—and yet, it was a beginning, and it served well enough.

Javert did not know of the money that was hidden away. As long as that was kept a secret from him, he would not mind that Valjean taught Cosette to read and write while living in the humble attic chamber of the Gorbeau tenement.

And in the evenings, sometimes, Valjean would come to Javert’s chamber.

Javert was not always there. Sometimes work kept him late. But sometimes—sometimes Javert’s own small chamber was lit by a candle, the curtain drawn, Javert staring at him from eyes like burning coals in the darkness, and instead of dread, something else was kindled in Valjean’s stomach.

He went to Javert’s bed willingly. It was the truth; there was no use lying to himself about it.

There was a pleasure in feeling another man’s hand clutching at his hip, even if that man was Javert. There was pleasure in finding himself on his back, as he had so long ago, hearing another’s fast breaths, and surrendering himself up to the scorching sensation of being filled by a hard prick, the terrifying ecstasy of it all.

“Do you regret offering this to me?” Javert asked, his whiskers scratching against the sweaty skin of Valjean's neck. “Do you regret it yet? Do you—”

Wordlessly, Valjean arched in response, Javert’s hand between his legs with a firm hold on his balls that kept him from spending himself while Javert worked him relentlessly.

When they came together like this, there was no place for regret, just the fierce pleasure burning through his body, the sensation of skin sliding against his own. Rough hands touched him with something that was not quite kindness, but nevertheless an urgency, which roused Valjean’s own need for more and more of this sensation that left him breathless and overwhelmed.

“Valjean,” Javert groaned against his skin. He was hot, as rigid as steel inside Valjean, and as ravenous for the intimacy as a starved wolf, despite his many denials in the months past.

But they were past denials now. A moan escaped Valjean as Javert’s hips kept rolling against him. Valjean’s legs were pressed back against his chest. He was spread wide open, filled so deeply that every motion set pleasure burning through him, and even though it was Javert who had him vulnerable and exposed, it was good.

Javert made him ache in ways he had not known since Toulon.

Valjean’s hands dug into Javert’s back as he gasped for breath, arching his back as Javert slid even deeper. The scent of Javert’s sweat was familiar now, a cloying, warm smell that covered him, something he had become used to just as much as the scratch of whiskers against his cheek.

His balls ached with fullness. His shaft was dripping wetness onto his stomach, but still Javert kept thrusting into him, hard and fast. Every motion sent sparks of heat racing up his spine until Valjean was panting for breath, need turning to torment as Javert kept his firm grip on his balls.

And then they were released, those calloused fingers massaging instead. Valjean was so sensitive now that this ached too: a hot, throbbing pain of need that suddenly rose into overwhelmed release as everything inside him tightened, pleasure washing through and out of him.

"Do _you_ regret it?" Valjean asked when it was done, his hands still wrapped around Javert's shoulders.

Javert stiffened. Then he rolled off Valjean, groaning as he did so. Even now, his sticky skin pressed against Valjean's as they rested side by side.

Valjean could still feel the ache of being used in such a way, a pleasant, tired exhaustion filling him. Javert's hand came to settle on his hip once more, fingers unconsciously tightening and grasping, then sliding down to his thigh.

Even now the touch was good. Even though this was Javert, his skin was warm, and his touch could be gentle enough. And when it was not gentle, that was good, too, at the height of desire.

"Comfort," Javert muttered. There was little bite in it; mostly, Javert sounded exhausted, his voice rough.

It was hard not to remember the way he had groaned Valjean's name when he found release. 

There were a hundred reasons for why Valjean should be afraid, and just as many reasons for why he should feel shame. And yet, when he had Javert's hands and mouth on him, the thrill that went through him was impossible to resist. To be touched again in such a way… Now that the desire for it had been woken inside Valjean once more, it seemed impossible to sate.

Even now, Valjean thought, even now it could surely be resisted. If he were to take Cosette and the money and run, his body could learn to do without, as it had been made to do without freedom or respect for so very long. A man could live without love; a man could live without kindness.

But it was so very cold a life to lead. During those hours when Javert was far and Valjean had time to dwell on these things, he could not help but feel shame for not only surrendering, but craving this touch—but all the same, it was good to have it once more.

"I wonder," Javert murmured. His hand trailed up Valjean's thigh again, then curved around his behind, fingers digging into muscle until Valjean groaned at the way a fingertip trailed close to where he still ached.

"If this is comfort, then I am damned. But so are you. Well, it shouldn’t have surprised me; you think me proud, but I know very well what I’m made of."

"There is nothing disrespectable about making use of what is your property," Valjean said softly.

Javert's finger trailed through the wet mess of spend between his buttocks, then pushed against him. Valjean gasped as it easily slipped inside.

"Isn't there?" There was derision in Javert’s words. "Not for an elector who buys a slave at an auction to work him, no. Not for a bourgeois who buys a galley-slave to carry his water or dig a canal or pull a cart. But a man like me who buys a man like you?"

Two of Javert's fingers were inside him now. Valjean felt his chest tighten, all air escaping his lungs as they turned within him, the pressure inside sending new lightning strikes of pleasure through his weary body.

"There is nothing about this that is respectable," Javert said.

Valjean gasped for air, his aching thighs falling apart as his prick began to harden again.

"I’m not a respectable man, and neither are you." Relentlessly, Javert's fingers worked inside him.

Valjean did not resist as Javert rolled on top of him.

"Here's the proof.”

Pleasure mounted again. It was hard to focus on Javert’s rambling words.

Gasping for air, Valjean arched on the bed. Whatever it was Javert desired to prove did not matter at that moment. There was only the heat and the pressure within him, the ache that was so much brighter than the faded memories of Toulon, the merciless touch that drove him higher and higher.

When it was over, he felt Javert’s fingers on his face. The touch was surprisingly gentle. As Valjean panted for breath, exhausted and overwhelmed and aching from the force of this second release, Javert’s fingers trailed down the side of his cheek, lingering close to his mouth.

“It’s the way you look when I touch you,” Javert murmured. “There’s nothing respectable about this. Nothing at all.”

Tiredly, Valjean turned his head, his eyes falling shut. His chest was heaving. The muscles of his thighs were trembling. He was exhausted; to spend himself again, and so soon, had leeched the strength from his bones. He could not have moved even if he had wanted to.

“If neither of us are respectable men, then does it matter?” he asked wearily. “Surely even men like us might come to crave comfort.”

Javert barked another of his hoarse laughs. Valjean could feel the rough hair of his whiskers tickle against his cheek.

“Men like us,” Javert muttered. “Men like us.”

He pushed himself up on his arms, staring down at Valjean from eyes that were a little wild, and a little tired. After a moment, Valjean slid his palm up his back.

There was a comfort in this. Even though it was Javert, there was something primordially reassuring about the warmth of his skin and the weight of his body.

“I know what I am,” Valjean said softly. “But I’m not who you think I am. I’ve never been.”

“And that’s important to you.” Javert bared his teeth again. “You are… I don’t know what you are. No murderer, that’s true. But you are no saint either. You’re still a convict.”

Valjean exhaled. He ran his hand down Javert’s back, wondering at those long forgotten memories that kept rising up. In the bagne, there had been chains, and a hundred eyes. Had he ever touched Boucard like this? 

“I know,” Valjean said again. “I know. But I am no danger. Not to you, nor to anyone else.”

“Oh, you _are_ a danger, Jean Valjean,” Javert said darkly. His lips twisted into a humorless smile. He rested his hand on Valjean’s chest once more, then slowly drew it downward. “But it’s too late to complain about that.”

A long moment later, his hand fell away. “I can’t afford to pay for two rooms. And I only paid for a week.”

Valjean tensed. A week—it would be up tomorrow. Would Javert force him and Cosette to leave as well?

“I paid for a month,” Valjean said quietly. “The mattress is yours, if you desire. We can have another mattress brought in and—”

“I have lodgings,” Javert said. He clenched his jaw. “Lodgings that suit one man, not two and a child. And as you have paid for a month, it seems just as well that you and the girl will stay here. And I—”

“You will visit to keep an eye on me?” There was a tinge of humor in the words, relief flooding through Valjean.

Could this be true? Would there be no chains for him, no shame? Would he be allowed to continue to live his quiet, hidden life with Cosette filling every hour with an unspeakable, sweet joy he had never known before?

Javert scoffed. “I’m sure that will be quite a _comfort_ to you.”

He rose at last. The candle light gleamed on his sweaty skin. Naked, he went towards the wash basin. As Valjean watched, he washed himself, then returned with a damp cloth which Valjean gratefully accepted, wiping the mess of spend from his stomach and thighs.

At last, Valjean rose as well and drew on his clothes once more. Javert had pulled on his nightshirt. With his drawn brows and bristling whiskers, he should have looked threatening in the gloom of the small chamber. Instead, even now, when Valjean knew how fragile the life he had found with Cosette was, he could not help but think of the warm weight of Javert’s body against his own, and the way those hands had been firm, but never cruel.

“It will be,” he said softly before he left, something traitorous still glowing in his stomach at the way Javert’s gaze turned dark and heavy.


	46. Chapter 46

Jean Valjean was a problem.

Autumn had arrived with full force, a cold wind driving rain through the streets of Paris. In the early darkness, the rats of Paris came crawling from the gutters, and the reports of robberies and theft had risen. There were days when it seemed that for every criminal transported to La Force, two new villains rose up in his stead, the underbelly of Paris a voracious Hydra hissing at the reputable citizens of Paris.

Even so, when Javert returned home late in the evenings, it was not the case of a robbery or a corpse found with a slit throat that occupied his mind, the way it had always been before.

Once, there had been a comforting routine in the sparse hours of idleness he allowed himself: food, some reading, sleep. The work had never bothered him. A man should be proud to do work as he did, especially a man with Javert’s background.

Yet these days, when he returned after dusk, there was no comfort in such routines. The candle burned down while the books remained unread; a waste completely antithetical to a man like Javert.

But the days when he remained alone in his simple lodgings were rare. Far more numerous were the days he went out, retracing his steps to the familiar, ramshackle building that was called the Gorbeau tenement.

There, the portress went to bed with the setting sun. Javert would make his way up the stairs, surrounded by darkness, careful not to think of what led him there. His breath would be uneven, as though the stairs had exhausted him. And when at last he opened the door to a small attic chamber, he would find there Jean Valjean, serene in the light of a candle, watching him from a straw-seated chair, his face pale and his eyes dark and unreadable.

It was madness. Javert knew that all of this was madness.

Jean Valjean was his slave in the eyes of the law. There was no reason at all to let this charade continue. But even so, Javert found that he could not move even a single finger to disturb these unreal, fragile moments when they came together under the cover of darkness.

There were days Javert came earlier, Sunday afternoons when the autumn sun would still filter in through the solitary window in the small chamber. Jean Valjean would be seated at the table with the girl, tracing sentences for her to read while Javert watched, something inside him still rebelling at a sight which old instinct told him was a lie.

And yet, during the weeks that passed, Jean Valjean continued to live in the way he had before: quiet and reticent, doing harm to none, only going out to visit the church of Saint-Médard where he gave alms to those waiting in its shadows.

How could this be true?

When Javert was away from the Gorbeau hovel, he felt that he saw more clearly, and again and again he told himself that he would return and end this unsavory arrangement. Jean Valjean's strong neck ought to wear a collar; no matter his behavior, he was a dangerous man in the eyes of the law.

Yet as soon as Javert returned, determined that one way or another, he would make an end to the situation that never stopped plaguing him, all doubts fled as soon as he entered the house. There was only the ferocious pounding of blood between his legs, and the hunger to have that powerful body obediently stretched out beneath him.

“You are early,” Valjean said. There was a trace of surprise on his face, but no fear when Javert opened the door to his chamber on yet another of those autumn days that bled into each other.

Before Valjean, an open book rested on the table. The lesson seemed to be over already, for Cosette sat in a corner of the room with a doll cradled in her arm, singing to her.

She had stopped when Javert had entered the room, but although the look she gave him was still wary, she began softly singing once more when Javert stepped towards the table.

That, too, was wrong, Javert thought, baffled and annoyed by the strange helplessness in his chest, an emotion he heretofore had not been familiar with.

The girl was to learn honest work, not to be raised to the same idleness that had caused her mother’s ruin. Had Javert not seen before where these things led? Spoiling her would do her no good; accustoming her to honest, hard work was what might eventually save her. The girl was seven years old, after all—old enough to earn her keep.

“There is bread, if you are hungry,” Valjean said quietly.

His face was serene, and suddenly Javert felt the words stuck in his throat, all thoughts of Cosette forgotten as he looked at Valjean.

Why had he come? To press Valjean into a shabby straw mattress, to sink deep into his body and hear Valjean’s helpless groan of ecstasy, to lose himself in that rough toil towards pleasure, possessing the man at last in truth, in a way that even now made his blood boil with lust to consider…

“I am not hungry,” Javert said.

Valjean nodded towards the chair where a short while ago, Cosette must have sat, practicing her letters. The sheet of paper was still on the table.

“I could read to you.” Valjean seemed relaxed, his face open, as though he did not know why Javert had come.

For there to be peace between them, perhaps even trust—impossible!

Yet even now, when Javert looked at Valjean, he saw not only that memory of the mayor witnessing his degradation, but also saw warmth appear in Valjean’s eyes. Even though he was calm, his eyes had darkened slightly. When Javert sat down at his table, Valjean’s eyes met his, and Javert knew that if he pressed his hand against Valjean’s chest, he would find his heart speeding up, beating fearfully, hungrily in anticipation of what was to come.

“I was reading Robinson Crusoe,” Valjean offered.

Javert inclined his head, uncaring even now about what words Valjean read–it might have been the Bible or a scandalous play, for all he cared.

He listened to Valjean read for an hour while Cosette played with the doll, later engaging in sparse conversation as the candle burned down. Even now, it seemed ridiculous to him that Valjean, who was a convict and a slave, should play the benevolent man, the philanthropist who would pretend to be a father to this girl, when in truth he was a criminal and a slave.

Every now and then, when Javert was far from the little attic chamber, it seemed to him that an end had to be made to that disguise. And yet, when he found himself in Valjean’s presence, he could not help but suffer through it in quiet, uncomfortable astonishment.

The girl was the child of a prostitute; hundreds of brats like her roamed the streets of Paris. Yet even so, there was something in the way Jean Valjean gazed at her that made Javert reluctant to break whatever spell had been cast over this ramshackle hovel.

After all, even a convict might become besotted with a child. A criminal might be a father; such things were only natural, and was it not also true that the prostitute might have been the mayor’s concubine?

Valjean thought himself a father, that much was apparent, and try as he might, Javert could find no further plot, no hidden motives behind this move. If it was a ploy, it seemed a ploy designed to stir his heart, and as Javert had no heart to be stirred by such displays of sentimentality, that was very well.

At last, when the candle was almost burned down, it was dark outside, and the house was quiet. Cosette was asleep in the small bed in the alcove, a curtain drawn before it. Valjean had returned to sit down at the table where Javert had been waiting silently all this time.

With a deep breath, Valjean reached out for the book. Javert’s hand shot out. It came to rest on Valjean’s.

For one moment, they remained in place, frozen in that tableau of domesticity. Then Valjean’s head turned, and when their eyes met, Javert’s voracious heart gave a jolt.

“You could stay tonight,” Valjean offered slowly.

Javert impatiently shook his head, although he could not tear his eyes away from Valjean’s face in the light of the flickering candle.

“I won’t stay. Walk with me.”

The words were brusque, but Valjean stood easily enough, a flush heating his cheeks. Javert felt that same heat suffuse his limbs. It was a madness, he thought again—but a madness he had surrendered to so often now that it seemed completely ordinary to step out into the corridor with Valjean, to listen to the silence of the building, and to then duck into a neighboring chamber, empty but for a dusty mattress and a broken washstand.

That night, he pressed himself to Valjean’s back, possessing the strong body once more while Valjean arched against him. There was no sound but the wind and Valjean’s labored breathing. The air was heavy with dust and the scent of sweat.

It could have happened like this in any of the stables they had stopped in during their long journey from Toulon to Montreuil—there would have been the sound of horses, but Javert could have pressed Valjean into the straw and known that ecstasy of sliding inside him, the heat of Valjean’s body accepting him even as the man strained beneath him.

Javert could have taken this then. It would have been his right.

It would not have been a madness then—but it also would not have been _this_ , Javert thought as he wrapped his hand around Valjean’s face to tilt it greedily towards him, swallowing Valjean’s groans as they strained together.

It was the eagerness and the ease with which Valjean fell apart that was Javert’s undoing. There was no calmness in Valjean now—the powerful body was wet with sweat, trembling as Javert took his pleasure. With every thrust, Valjean moaned and arched against him, eyes unseeing with ecstasy.

It was a madness. And Javert had succumbed to it just as easily as any man in the bagne might have.

That was one truth, and perhaps one that should fill him with revulsion. But the other truth, the truth that drove him to return again and again, was that some part of Valjean had spoken the truth. Valjean was a convict—but a convict who did not seem to pose any danger. Could such a thing exist?

Furthermore, Valjean had spoken another truth, even though he had blushed to admit it back then. Valjean enjoyed it. He must have enjoyed it in the bagne, too. Most importantly, pleasure did things to him that left something in Javert shaken.

Pleasure turned Valjean’s eyes soft and unseeing and made his body yield with such wanton grace that Javert’s hunger for him grew and grew. Had he before dreamed of possessing Valjean whole, of truly knowing the man subdued by owning him body and soul, he now knew how such a thing could be accomplished: he had intimate knowledge of Valjean’s weaknesses, and knew just what a touch could effect.

And yet, what could such knowledge be used for? It only fanned Javert’s own hunger, until all of his doubts and fears were forgotten, until he was driving himself into Valjean like a beast, licking the sweat from his nape as he gripped his thighs.

Afterward, when it was done, they were resting together, Valjean warm and relaxed as the sweat on their bodies cooled.

“It is madness,” Javert muttered, “madness,” and even as he spoke, his hand possessively slid upwards, rubbing over the firm planes of Valjean’s stomach, now damp with sweat and his spend.

How many times had he touched those muscles, imagining himself master of that powerful convict-slave?

It was becoming harder and harder to remember Valjean as he had been in Toulon. For half of Javert’s life, the name Jean Valjean had conjured the image of a sullen convict in his mind, the double-chain and the red blouse. Even in Montreuil-sur-Mer, after having seen Valjean as Madeleine for so many years, the revelation had instantly wiped away all those memories of the mayor walking the streets, appearing at funerals, or overseeing the work at his factory.

But now—now all of those memories of Toulon, too, had faded.

To think _Jean Valjean_ now was to think of hot skin against his own, that familiar mouth slack with pleasure, eyes going dark and soft as Javert came to share his bed. Now he thought of Valjean naked and tired in the moonlight, washing himself at the basin with a damp cloth while Javert rested in a bed that smelled of their sweat and their passion. Now—now there was Jean Valjean, who sat at a table patiently spelling out words for that child, who watched him with wary, yet strangely calm eyes, who did not flinch when Javert reached out to cover his hand with his own...

Beneath Javert’s touch, Valjean suddenly froze.

Valjean had ceased to breathe for a moment, and the sudden change had been enough to break Javert's train of thought, drawing him back to their attic room. Valjean was still in his arms, his skin warm against his own, Javert's softened prick still pressed to his buttocks.

But Javert’s hand had continued its journey. It had travelled upwards, and now rested over where Jean Valjean's heart was beating—and where not long ago, a glowing iron had been pressed to Valjean’s skin. Once more, Javert's hand had touched the brand that spelled out the letter _J_ , and in response, Valjean had flinched, who so far had surrendered himself so willingly.

Javert hesitated. He was not certain what to say. A feeling almost like embarrassment filled him. His hand dropped away, and a moment later, Valjean began to breathe again. Yet he did not speak, and neither did Javert.

The comfortable silence had changed all of a sudden. The stillness of the chamber had become charged once more—but it was a different tension that filled it now, one devoid of the heat of desire.

Again Javert hesitated. His body was still warm and relaxed from release. Perhaps, now that they were both pressed together, alone in this small chamber with its dusty mattress, there had come a time to speak.

But what could he say?

Javert clenched his jaw. Had he not already said everything there was to say? This thing between them—whatever it was—it was a thing of silences, of touches. Surely that was all that could be expected of this. After all, no matter what they did in this chamber, it could not change the truths of the world.

And that brand was one such truth.

After a moment, Javert stood. Silently, he drew on his clothes. When he turned around at last, Valjean had sat up as well, his back towards him as he pulled on his shirt.

Javert's breath caught in his throat at the display of rippling muscles and skin still gleaming with sweat—and there, impossible to overlook, the many scars that lined his back. Most of them were white—but a few, left by Javert’s own hands, were still pink.

Even now, Javert could not speak. When he left the room, his mind was reeling. Beneath his fingers, he could still feel the lines of the brand, and the way Valjean had so suddenly stiffened.

Javert did not return the next day. There was another case taking up his time—a butcher had been robbed, and there was a case of blackmail, which might be connected to a corpse that had been found a few days earlier. One of Javert's informants claimed that he knew the wine-shop where a man who was known to dabble in forgeries and blackmail was sure to have a bottle or two; Javert waited until long past midnight, clad in a workingman’s clothes and clutching a bottle of a cheap, sour red wine, but the man never showed up.

The next day was a Thursday. Once again Javert retraced the familiar steps to the Gorbeau hovel. Earlier, he had found himself coming up with excuses for why he should return straight to his own lodgings; this had surprised him so much that now, with a grim mien, he was striding up the creaky old stair, determined to face what had his disobedient heart in such turmoil.

There was, after all, nothing that could be done about the brand. Jean Valjean was a convict and a criminal. He might be a criminal no more—but that did not change the truth of the past branded upon his chest.

To have doubts about things that could not be changed—ridiculous! Surely Valjean would understand that. Yes, even Valjean with his talk of goodness and kindness understood very well where they both came from, and he knew what laws governed the country, even if he did not much like them.

Perhaps Javert would let Valjean preach once more about compassion and God's mercy; oh, Valjean would like that. Or perhaps Javert would draw him straight to a mattress—and that, too, would be good. Perhaps—

Javert stopped. The door before him was open.

All of a sudden, his heart began to race. Slowly, mechanically, he moved forward—but he knew what he was about to see, even before he had pushed the door fully open.

The small attic chamber beyond was empty. There were no sheets of paper on the table where Cosette had learned to read and write. The small bed in the alcove was deserted, and the mattress on the floor, where Valjean had slept, was gone.

The chamber was completely empty, except for the table and the straw-seated chairs.

Jean Valjean had left once more.


	47. Chapter 47

What had come to pass? In the early hours of Wednesday, Valjean had risen, quietly grateful for the relief that unfailingly overwhelmed him anew every morning at the realization that he was safe, that he had a roof over his head and Cosette by his side, and that, for now at least, he had no reason to fear Javert.

There was also, still, a guilty flare of shame at the memory of Javert’s warmth against his own, but experience had taught him that this would quickly be buried beneath the joy of Cosette’s hand in his, and the overwhelming relief of walking to Saint-Médard without having to fear that he might be recognized and dragged back in irons.

All in all, his life was as good as it could be—as good as it had not been since those days of Montreuil-sur-Mer.

It was an hour after the sun had risen that this changed.

Cosette still asleep, Valjean had made his way out of the Gorbeau tenement. The portress provided a breakfast, but he was hoping to bring back plums for Cosette from the market, and perhaps a warmer pair of stockings, in addition to more firewood.

Half an hour later, he had stockings, wood, and a small bag of plums and pears to delight Cosette with. For some reason, Valjean found himself lingering at a wine-vendor’s stall. Would Javert drink his wine, if he offered…?

His fingers tightened around the handle of the basket he carried, imagining Javert sitting in the chair opposite his own, studying him in the light of a candle, a glass of wine in his hand.

Even now, there was something frightening about that image. It was hard to forget the weight of the collar and the truth about the chain that was still in Javert’s hand.

Yet even so, for no apparent reason, Javert had decided to forgo collar and chain. Could there be peace between them? Could there be—friendship?

It seemed impossible. Nevertheless, to his confusion, Valjean soon found himself leaving the stall with a bottle of an Argenteuil wine in his basket. Near another stall, where a man was sitting in the shadows beneath an overhanging roof, he stopped to drop a sou into the man’s palm. Then Valjean continued on his way home—but as soon as he had left the market behind, he became aware that someone was following him.

His first instinct was the police. Then, a heartbeat later, Valjean realized that for once, he did not have to fear the police: he belonged to Javert, who in turn had every right to send him out on an errand, if he so pleased.

And yet, would Javert answer in such a way if questioned? Furthermore, the men might beat him anyway, or lock him up in a jail until Javert was found—and what would become of Cosette in that time, all alone in their little chamber?

His heart beating, Valjean slowed his walk a little. He took the next corner to his left, as though he was intending to use the small alley there as a shortcut—but as soon as he had turned the corner and was out of sight of his pursuer, he vaulted a narrow wall, disturbing a black cat that had been sleeping there in the sun, and by the way of another dark alley, made his way to the back of a wine-house.

Before he entered the small shop, he hastily made use of a wig he had hidden beneath his coat. So disguised, he entered at last, walking slowly and ponderously, with the air of a man who had overindulged the night before and now came in search of more drink as a remedy. Soon after, he was seated in a dark corner, hidden behind a wooden beam, nursing a glass of wine while he stared into it with the morose, preoccupied air of the drunkard.

Half an hour later, the glass was empty. No one had entered the shop in search of him.

His heart lighter, Valjean rose and left the tavern. After all, he might have been mistaken: with things settled with Javert, Valjean was in no danger anymore, and there was no one searching for him. Perhaps he had aroused the attention of a pickpocket; but if that was the case, he had surely succeeded to shake the thief off his trail.

The sudden coldness of metal against his throat made Valjean freeze. A heartbeat later, he found himself dragged into an empty doorway.

“Jean. So it is you.”

The voice made him shiver. For a moment, Valjean found himself returned to the bagne: chains on his limbs, hard wood beneath his body, an arm curved around his chest.

He knew that voice well. Many years had passed, and once, he had thought the man who had embraced him in those long years of darkness completely forgotten. But Javert’s touch had brought those memories back. And now, after so many years, Jean Valjean turned and found himself face to face with one who had been his chainmate once, many years ago.

“Gilbert,” he said quietly.

The man gave him a sharp grin. “So you still recognize me!”

An hour later, Valjean was seated once more in a dark corner in the wine-shop, an empty bottle on the table between him and Gilbert.

“So I can trust you, Jean?” Gilbert asked. Despite the wine, his gaze was sharp, his eyes alert.

Valjean nodded. “Of course,” he repeated. When Gilbert’s hand lingered on his own, he allowed that, too.

They parted with an embrace, and Valjean strolled back towards the Gorbeau tenement with the air of a man who had just spent a pleasant morning catching up with an old friend.

Once he entered the small attic chamber, his demeanor changed immediately. Cosette was already awake. She was sitting at the table, the doll carefully propped up next to her. When she saw that Valjean had returned, a smile illuminated her face.

Valjean set down his basket and locked the door. Then he took a deep breath.

“Quiet now,” he whispered, raising a finger to his lips as Cosette watched with the wide-eyed attentiveness of a someone who had grown up with the terrifying spectre of Madame Thénardier’s whip hanging over her.

Ten minutes later, all their sparse belongings had been packed and the room was empty once more, save for the table and the mattress on the ground. The corridor was quiet. For a moment, Valjean’s gaze paused on the door at the end of the corridor—the room Javert had rented once, the room which still harbored the straw mattress where they had come together, and where he had found an improbable peace in the arms of Javert.

Regret welled up in Valjean, as sharp and sudden as the stab of a knife. If he were to leave now without a word, what would Javert think?

And yet, what did he owe Javert? He still bore Javert’s brand on his chest. Whatever had happened between them had been impossible from the beginning. He did not owe Javert his loyalty.

But even now, it was difficult to deny the longing for those few moments of warmth in Javert’s arms, the intimacy of Javert’s breath against his skin, the solidness of his body.

A sudden sound outside on the streets broke the silence. A heartbeat later, Valjean and Cosette quietly descended the stairs, the portress out on some errand. No one took notice as they fled the building where for a small amount of time, Valjean had allowed himself to feel safe for the first time since that fateful day when a guard had riveted the collar around his neck.

As they walked, every shadow made Valjean tremble. Once more he knew the spectre of pursuit—yet this time, it was not Javert he was fleeing from, but a ghost of his past that had appeared and cornered him without warning.

There was no other way. Valjean repeated this to himself as he cowered in an alcove with Cosette while a cart filled with boxes slowly made its way past. Whatever had bound him to Gilbert in Toulon—had it ever been more than just the chains?—had surely vanished as soon as they left the bagne behind.

He did not owe Javert his loyalty, but neither did he owe it to Gilbert.

So many years had passed. Even now, he remembered the warmth of Gilbert's body against his own. But the simple comfort and camaraderie of trapped men in a hell devised by a society which had unfairly condemned them did not necessarily hold true in the bright light of day.

Here, where there were no chains on them, and where temptation spread all around them, a man might come to desire more than just comfort. In fact, this seemed to be the reason for which Gilbert remembered him—his strength, and not the comfort of touch.

"There is a child, yes?" Gilbert had asked, showing his teeth at the way Valjean had paled. "There, you see I have done my work. You've nothing to fear from me, Jean. I trust you; yes, I trust you just as much as I trusted you in the bagne, and now here we are, two free men, with no chains to keep us from taking what we deserve. I have friends, Jean; tomorrow you will meet them. One is the Spaniard Don Alvarès: a smart man, who has a job for men such as us. You will meet me here in the evening; he will be here too, and then we can talk."

A job—which meant a crime to be committed: a burglary, a robbery, perhaps murder.

Valjean shuddered, seeing before him once more the distant light of the Bishop while all around him, a morass seemed to stretch, sucking at his legs with every step he took, drawing him back into that mire of darkness.

"Father, is it the mistress?" Cosette asked with a voice that was thin and frightened, breaking through his memories. Cosette was clutching at Valjean’s arm, her face drawn.

At that moment, there was a sound coming from the end of the alley, an ominously slow footstep, and the sound of low laughter.

Was it Gilbert? Was it one of his accomplices? Valjean could not say, but already he saw himself surrounded by those ghosts of his past, the brand on his chest revealed, the child torn from him, Javert on his trail once more, all hope of a peaceful life lost forever, the Heavens above closed to him as the Bishop turned his face away in horror of what had become of Jean Valjean.

"Be quiet, child," Valjean now whispered. "Madame Thénardier is very close. There is no time left to lose. Here, hold on to this."

There was a wall behind them. The alcove they had found was filled with old, broken crates, but the wall was not much higher than a man. Valjean lifted Cosette, and with his help, she was soon crouching on top of the wall, watching fearfully as he quickly made his way up as well, hands and feet finding hold among the rough stones.

A heartbeat later, Cosette was pressing her small face into his coat as they both knelt on the wall.

There was some movement behind them. Valjean saw the top of a battered hat—could that be Gilbert? The owner of the hat was standing at the opening of the alley, just out of sight of the alcove. As Valjean watched, three other men approached. They remained near the waiting man for a moment, then dispersed with a deliberate slowness that set Valjean’s heart to pounding. One made his way into the alley, the other two walking, more quickly, to the east and the north, as if to take up watch at those points where the alley opened up into other lanes.

Valjean had to think fast. Another second, and the first would be far enough into the alley that he need only look up to spy Valjean and Cosette there atop the wall.

Then a noise on the other side of the wall caught Valjean’s attention.

Another cart was making its way along a small lane that ran parallel to the alley here, divided from it only by the wall. An elderly man sat at the front of the cart, a hat hiding his face. A horse pulled the wagon, blowing out air as it passed slowly below them, the driver's head bent so low that he seemed to be asleep. The back of the cart was filled with all sorts of boxes and barrels, a blanket spread over them.

There was no time to lose, Valjean reminded himself.

He took hold of Cosette, and then he gently lowered her into the passing cart. The driver did not stir, even as her feet touched one of the crates. Her eyes were wide with terror as she stared up at Valjean, but Valjean pressed one finger to his lips, then quickly dropped from the wall into the narrow lane. A heartbeat later, he too had climbed the cart.

Taking hold of Cosette, he drew her beneath the blanket. There, hidden among the boxes which he now saw were laden with vegetables and bolts of fabric, they remained, not making a sound as the cart drove them further and further away from Gilbert and the men searching for them.

When the cart stopped at last, Valjean raised a finger to his lips once more. His heart pounding, Cosette pressed to his side, he waited. A moment later, there was a creaking of wood, signaling that the driver had climbed down from his seat.

Valjean could not make out much of their surroundings. Through a hole in the blanket, he spied gray stone—another wall rising next to the cart.

Was it a house? Had the man decided to stop at a wine-shop for a glass before continuing his work? Or had they reached a market where the vegetables might be sold?

Either way, surely it was time to leave now, before the man became aware of them.

Reaching out for Cosette’s tiny hand, Valjean drew her towards where one might drop unobserved to the ground between the cart and the wall, hidden behind one of the barrels loaded onto the wagon. There was no sound to be heard. Perhaps the driver had gone inside for a glass of wine or a plate of food, or otherwise had stopped to light a pipe. In any case, this seemed as good a chance as would offer itself to vanish from the cart, and so from the pursuit of Gilbert, unobserved, without leaving behind a trail that might lead those pursuers after him.

Soundlessly, Cosette’s tiny form dropped from beneath the blanket into the shadows between the cart and the wall. Valjean made ready to follow her.

Then, all of a sudden, the blanket was pulled away. Light filled Valjean’s vision.

Above him, the aged figure of the driver bent his head closer, staring at him in puzzlement as he exclaimed, “What! So it is you, Father Madeleine! But how have you come to be here, among my vegetables? I know that I did not pluck you from the soil with my own hands! Has the good God Himself hidden you among my melons?”

After a moment’s terror, something about the familiar address and the voice of the man woke a spark of recognition in Valjean. Then the man lifted his hat to gaze at him with confused wonder, and Valjean suddenly realized whose cart fate had led him to.

The man before him had once broken his leg when another cart had collapsed in Montreuil, and, with Madeleine’s recommendation, had found new work in Paris.

It was Father Fauchelevent whom Providence had sent to their rescue, and who now clapped his hands as he stared at Valjean with happy confusion.


	48. Chapter 48

Two weeks passed before a letter arrived, addressed to Javert in neat writing. At first, Javert had stared at it in confusion; it was rare that a letter reached him at his home, rather than at the station-house.

As he unfolded the envelope, he saw the familiar script of a man whom he had once known as Madeleine—Jean Valjean had written to him.

His pulse echoing loudly in his ears, he began to read. He had to start over several times before he could at last make sense of the words.

“ _Do not worry about me,_ ” he muttered to himself, at first in disbelief, then in anger.

He, Javert, worrying about a man who had escaped him, a convict who had fled once more—a slave, _his_ slave?

“Outrage! That is what one feels; yes, outrage, a righteous anger! Not—”

The letter trembled in his hand. Javert could not continue; something seemed stuck in his throat, and he could not force out any further words.

Breathing heavily, he turned, pacing back and forth between wall and window. Fragments of what he had read kept running through his mind, taunting him, setting his heart to racing with a confused despair that had no right to exist. _Forgive me,_ the letter said, and _to protect the child,_ and _you must believe me_.

“Must I? Must I?” Javert muttered through clenched teeth. “A fine world this is, where the slave commands the master!”

The words gave him no relief. With a shaking hand, he wiped his brow. Then, anger reared up in him once more, and he crumpled the letter in his hand with a sound of rage—only to desperately smooth it out again a heartbeat later.

But the letter held no answers for him. None of the sentences had an answer for the one question that had tormented him since the day Valjean had vanished.

Javert would return to the letter again and again as the days passed, until the contents were burned into his mind and he was able to recite the few sentences by heart. _I dare not think you hold affection for me, but if there was respect, I pray that I have not wholly destroyed it by my actions, even though I am sure you must think so._

Weeks passed without another letter. Javert tried to find out where it had come from, but the gamin whom his portress had seen delivering it had disappeared completely.

_If it is foolish to send this, then I hope you will see it as the foolishness of an old man who loves the child in his care, and not the wickedness of the convict._

When weeks turned to years, the letter came to rest—seemingly forgotten—at the bottom of a drawer, covered with other papers.

And still, every now and then, Javert would wake at night to the quietness of his room, almost remembering the sensation of warm breath against his skin, and the weight of a powerful body relaxing into sleep.

_I do not doubt that our paths will cross again, and I know you will show me no kindness then. But I promise you that Cosette will be safe and sheltered from all harm in my care._

***

Early in the month of September in the year 1827, four years after he had received that fateful letter, Javert, now inspector of the 1st class, terror of the class of vagrants that found fertile soil in the shadows of Paris, had been sent to walk along a certain street in the Faubourg Saint Antoine at a certain time.

Why had he been sent there? That matter quickly became apparent, for there was a lively gathering going on in one of the tap-houses where a red-haired servant girl served wine to a gathering of workingmen.

Javert as well had disguised himself in the outfit of such men: he wore a cap, pulled low to hide his suspicious eyes, and a brown coat, clean but mended at the elbows.

Someone made space for him on a bench, and a short while later, the servant girl brought him a glass of wine and the simple meal served in such houses. Javert dropped a few sous into her hand, his attention already turned towards another table, where a man was standing and holding forth on the sort of topics that made an agent of the state listen closely.

This, in fact, was the very reason why Javert had been sent to this place, and why he had disguised himself to observe the goings-on. This tap-house was only one of many places where the powder-keg of riot seemed to perpetually smolder. The Prefecture had long been suspicious of those who gathered here. The man Javert now observed seemed deserving of such suspicion: he was young, golden-haired and red-lipped, but warmed not by wine but by a sentiment that shone through him with the cold, merciless gleam of a drawn blade.

Watching with quiet focus, as so many of the men around him, Javert took inventory of every word to report it back later that day to his superior, along with a description of this young man and those supporting his views.

The speaker knew how to rouse the masses. Even as Javert took note of every hand he shook, every word of support, every whisper taking place in an alcove, he could not help but become aware of how with just a few sentences, this young man had transformed a crowd of tired workingmen into an eager audience, their blood heated by the dangerous words of insurgence.

There was no doubt that this student was at the root of the whispers of trouble, Javert thought. His name was Enjolras, according to his neighbour, and he came to speak with some frequency. Javert took note of that man too before committing every single of the young man’s features to his memory—only to find himself abruptly at the center of attention when the student, his speech having sufficiently roused the men, now turned to directly address Javert.

“And is it not true,” Enjolras said, eyes ablaze in a face of marble, chin raised in challenge, “that even here in Paris, the most pitiful of creatures walk among us, day in and out, showing off their chains for all to see, but finding no pity? Galley-slaves—now slaves in truth, sold by the state like cattle, misery filling the coffers of a king whose subjects crawl in the dirt. Citizen, I ask you, is it not true that slavery is the evil of our century—an evil 1794 already thought overcome, only to see the greed of 1802 resurrect it? Is it not true even now that a slave from Saint-Domingue, upon reaching French soil, has the right to appeal to the courts for his freedom? How then can we condemn our own prisoners to that very fate? Is a convict not a man as well? To mete out just punishment for a crime is one thing, citizen—but for the state to become slave-handler, moreso, to deny that freedom which the past century granted to every man, to let not the state clothe and feed and house those it has condemned, but sell them instead out of greed to any man who has the coin to buy those pitiful lives, to see them then lead a life untouched by compassion and mercy, more miserable even than the bagne. For galley-slaves so sold are no longer protected by the laws that govern the jails, but instead lead a life of abject misery, suffering whatever cruelty their owner devises, to be freed from such torment only by death. I ask you, citizen, is this not a great, festering wound in the heart of France?”

Javert had frozen, all thoughts of his superior and his report forgotten as he found himself pinned by the student’s eyes. For a moment, with that terrible gaze holding him captive, he imagined that the man could see the truth right there in his eyes, that for some unfathomable reason, this young insurgent knew of that day so long ago, when on a hot summer’s day, Javert had watched as a hot iron was pressed to a bound prisoner’s chest, a red _J_ branded forever into his flesh, the collar of iron around his neck and the chain in Javert’s hand. And later, later, those endless, fevered nights of possessing that convict, the madness of burying himself inside Jean Valjean, strong thighs trembling against his sides as Valjean writhed beneath him…

Javert forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. Enjolras had moved on to direct his impassioned speech towards Javert’s neighbor now. With the man’s eyes no longer focused on Javert, it was as if a spell had been lifted. Although his heart was still racing, Javert was able to think once more—and chide himself for the lunacy of his thoughts.

It had been coincidence, nothing more. No one here knew who he was. This student knew nothing of Javert’s past—nor of Jean Valjean, or the things that had come to pass.

Nevertheless, when Javert at last left the tavern half an hour later, his mind filled with details of the man’s speech and the faces of those who had lingered to talk to him, he could not shake off a sudden uneasiness.

Even now, he would wake sometimes at night, his blood pounding and his body damp with sweat, his prick hard and aching between his legs with memories of Valjean’s embrace.

Where could the man have fled to? And most importantly—why had he run? Of course, Valjean had run before—but he had never written a letter.

There were days Javert felt overwhelmed by helpless anger, simultaneously ashamed and enraged by his own silence, for by all rights the justice of the peace should have been informed immediately that Cosette had vanished. But there were also days when Javert could not help but remember the weight of Valjean beneath him, and the many moments when he had been at Valjean’s mercy, Valjean choosing to save him again and again.

Still, years had passed without word from Valjean, and no matter where Javert searched or how many spies he interrogated, there was no word of an old philanthropist dropping sous into the palms of beggars.

Perhaps Valjean had truly gone, fleeing to the south—or perhaps taking a ship to cross to England. In any case, he was gone. And what reason did he have to return to Javert?

A shiver went through Javert when he thought of the burning gaze of the student—a dangerous rabble-rouser, no doubt about it, and hopefully someone his superiors would keep an eye on. And yet, even though Javert knew that his words were dangerous, he could not help but think of that final night he had spent with Valjean’s body pressed against his own, the way Valjean had wholly given himself over to him—and the way he had tensed when Javert’s fingers had found the brand on his chest once more.

Was that why Valjean had left? Were it the same questions the student had asked of him that had driven Valjean to rebel?

But there had been no chains on Valjean, no collar. He could have run at any time. And had it not been Valjean himself who had offered his body, who had suggested this strange arrangement, the truce between them that had driven them into each other’s arms again and again?

“Lunacy,” Javert muttered, but it took him a long time to fall asleep, his prick rebelling until he took it into his hand to at last wring an uneasy sleep from himself.

A sudden crash of thunder woke him.

There was a weight on his legs—a familiar, warm weight. Without thinking he reached out, his hands clasping Valjean’s waist, touching warm, damp skin. Valjean was naked.

As Valjean shifted, Javert felt the heaviness of his prick drag against Javert’s own. Javert’s hands trailed upwards. They brushed the carpet of Valjean’s chest hair, lingering there as Valjean shifted again. Valjean did not make a sound, not even when Javert’s fingers kept exploring until they found his nipples. Slowly, Javert circled the hard nubs until Valjean’s breathing was speeding up, his prick rubbing against Javert’s every time he shifted, his balls warm and heavy against Javert’s thigh.

A flash of lightning lit the room. In the sudden flare of brightness, Javert found himself staring up at Valjean whose eyes were dark and unreadable, although his body was flushed with pleasure. The heartbeat of brilliant light illuminated his hair, and for a heartbeat he wore the halo of a saint even as he looked like the embodiment of sin.

Violent, painful desire rushed through Javert. For a moment he imagined himself digging his fingers into Valjean’s sides, rolling them over, pushing himself inside until Valjean cried out with pleasure.

Instead, he dropped his hands to Valjean’s hips to greedily hold him close. “Why?” he asked at last, his voice rough. “Why?”

Above him, Valjean stiffened. In the darkness after the flash of lightning, Javert could not even make out his outline anymore; all he had was the warm flesh in his grasp and the heavy awareness of their arousal.

Valjean did not answer, but Javert could hear him breathe.

Javert stroked along the strong thighs. Then, at last, he curved one hand around Valjean, and despite the angle, forced one finger into him, Valjean’s body yielding to him as easily as it always had.

Valjean cried out, his body arching—and then, with the next flash of lightning, Javert awoke.

A storm was raging outside. Amidst the lightning and thunder, hail was beating against his window.

His room was empty. Valjean was gone.

His heart pounding, his body covered in sweat, Javert rose, naked, his prick stiff and red between his legs. Clenching his teeth, he ignored it as he went for the wash basin. The cold water made him shudder as he washed himself, but little by little, it washed away the memories until the dream no longer seemed real.

Valjean had not been here. Valjean would never be here in his bed again. And even were he to find him again, by all rights Javert should chain him, not take him back into his bed.

It was no use to dream of what could not be had.


	49. Chapter 49

The vegetable patches were mostly bare. There were still a few melons to be seen, as well as yellow and orange pumpkins, and the leafy green fronds of kale that defied the cooling autumn days. Yet where earlier this year, beans had rapidly climbed up their trellis, peas and carrots and strawberries yielding a plentiful harvest, the soil was now bare, resting for the coming spring. In the shaded corner near the wall, patches of rhubarb were growing, and the vines of courgettes could be seen sprawling – but these, too, had been harvested earlier in the year, and except for a few stragglers, would yield no more this season.

Jean Valjean surveyed his work with quiet satisfaction. Another year had passed. Another bountiful harvest, the convent’s pantries well stocked, and many boxes of surplus sold at the market. A good year.

Another year lived behind the walls of the convent, shielded from all eyes. Here, safe from all harm, Cosette had grown like a small seedling lifted from the barren, rocky soil of Montfermeil and transplanted with careful hands into this garden, where beneath the sisters’ watchful eyes, she had grown up in joy, learning to laugh and to pray and to play with her friends.

“Father,” Cosette called out, a little breathless as she came running towards him, her eyes alight with laughter. “They say that one of the girls saw a ghost cross the garden, walking straight from the ruins towards the poplars at the other end, can you believe it? He was all ghostly and pale, and when the bell rang for prayer, he vanished into thin air.”

Valjean smiled quietly. “Perhaps they saw us tending to the melons,” he suggested. “It’s getting colder now at night.”

Cosette laughed again. “Oh no, father, she described the ghost perfectly! She said he had the air of an aged priest, although he had the stature of a knight of old, and in the moonlight, there was something like a halo of silver around his head. He walked very slowly, as though he was carrying all the pain in the world—but he was like no priest she has ever seen. Oh, do you think it could have been a saint? Last Wednesday, father; it was still warm last week!”

Jean Valjean nodded thoughtfully. “I remember,” he said. “We didn’t take out the straw mats at night until Sunday.”

What he did not say was that Jean Valjean, as was often his habit, had taken a walk that Wednesday, praying in the ruins of the old convent which, with the passing years, had become a home for his soul, just as Fauchelevent’s hut had become a home to his heart.

Yet even now, after so many years lived peacefully behind these walls, shielded from the past and all those who knew the truth about him, there were nights when Valjean could not sleep, when he had to rise and kneel, penitent, in the chapel at midnight, until prayer and devotion washed away his body’s ardor.

Even though those nights filled by dreams and shameful memories had become rarer with the passing years, they had never fully vanished.

But now, with winter approaching, surely his body, too, would slumber. Such urges had to lie dormant once more, until they were so deeply buried beneath the peace of these walls and the weight of prayer that by spring, Valjean would no longer by haunted by the ghosts of the past.

As fate had it, Valjean was granted no such peace.

As the years passed, he had grown less nervous about accompanying Fauchelevent to the market. No one had ever recognized him; if Javert and the police were still looking for him, they must have long since turned their eyes away from Paris. Thus, when Valjean was asked to deliver one last wagonload of their produce to the vendor who bought the convent’s surplus, as well as picking up a crate of nails and some tiles to patch the roof that had begun to leak over the kitchen, Valjean’s heart was not filled with dread.

These outings had become routine. Even though he still made certain to keep his hat tilted so that his face remained half hidden from view, no one showed any interest in an old man driving towards the market.

On any other day, Fauchelevent would have sat beside him on the wagon. Today, Valjean was on his own, Fauchelevent having remained behind due to his bad leg, which had begun to ache with the shifting weather.

It was early yet. The market was busy, but his errands soon completed. Idly, Valjean remained at a stand that sold clothing, touching the hem of a dress of black linen. Cosette had worn a dress just like this when they had fled Montfermeil…

Then he tore himself away from the stall. Cosette had long since outgrown that little dress, although Valjean had been unable to part with it. She was far too tall for the dress that had caught his eye at the market as well. In either case, she had no need of new dresses at the convent.

Instead, he might bring back a book. Winter nights were long, and there was not much work for him and Fauchelevent in that season. The evenings could be whiled away much more pleasantly with a cup of hot wine and a book to read aloud.

By the southern corner of the market, there was an aged man with a peculiar, thin beard who sold used books. Jean Valjean knew him well; in turn, he, too, was known to this man. In fact, as soon as Valjean had walked towards him, a book appeared in the man’s hand.

“A travelogue,” the bookseller said without preamble. “Saved it for you, monsieur. Thought you might want a look. In good condition; see. Certainly three francs is not too much for such a volume.”

Fauchelevent would have haggled; Valjean paid the man without protest, eying the cover with interest. It showed a ship in a storm. The leather was cracked, but the pages seemed intact. It would serve well enough to provide some entertainment when the year was coming to its close. And then, Valjean did not doubt that they would make a few more trips yet beyond the convent walls before the first snow fell.

His business finished at the market, Jean Valjean turned to return to where the wagon had been left. The market was busier now; men and women filled the small alleys between the stands. Children raced past as birds were shrieking; someone dragged a recalcitrant goat from the market, while at another stand, a vendor beat a starved dog who had inched too close.

And then, suddenly, in that chaos, as his eyes explored the crowd, for a moment he seemed to lock eyes with a familiar man.

Dark eyes beneath heavy brows met his. A heated gaze sent him reeling—like a flash of lightning came the memory of hands on his hips as the nearly forgotten brand on his chest caught fire…

A heartbeat later, the apparition had vanished, the moment gone as soon as it had come.

No matter how he turned, Jean Valjean could not catch sight of any familiar face. There was no tall man glowering down at him, cudgel at the ready beneath his coat. There was no one who called his name, no hands that reached out to restrain him.

The chaos of the market continued unhindered, an endless stream of people and sounds that washed past him as if that moment had never happened.

Valjean shivered, suddenly feeling cold. But there was no Javert. It had been a trick of his mind.

It had to be. There was no reason at all that Javert should be waiting here for him—and surely, if it had been Javert, he would have immediately come forward.

Still, disturbed and uneasy, Valjean hastened towards the wagon. He gave the boy who had been watching the horse a sou, placing his purchases in the back before he took hold of the reins and began to make his way back towards the convent.

The streets were busier now, but even so he made good time. Perhaps, had he not been so startled, he would have remained at the market for a while, searching for a present to bring back for Cosette, who, despite her apparent happiness, still possessed a nearly unending curiosity about what came to pass outside the convent’s walls.

Little of the mundane world was allowed to pass into the children’s hands. Even so, Fauchelevent’s hut now held a small collection of strange trinkets: exotic animals from faraway places carved out of wood, a coin bearing the face of a Roman king, a scrap of fabric from China, which Cosette had turned into a dress for her doll—and of course Valjean’s small collection of second-hand books.

And yet, like all children, Cosette was easy to please: instead of a gift, Valjean might tell her a story—a fantastic story one might have overheard from a sailor who had come to Paris from a faraway land. They would spend their accustomed hour together in the hut, Cosette would clap her hands and smile at him, kissing his cheek before she left, and all would be as it had always been.

Nothing had happened. Valjean’s mind had played a trick on him. Any moment now, he would be inside the convent once more—and once there, the outside world could not enter.

Again Valjean shivered, feeling as though a cold gust of wind had blown through the alley. But the fallen leaves remained unperturbed, and as he uneasily shifted his shoulders, he suddenly thought that in the shadows behind him, there had been a movement.

Terrified, he turned, ready to slip from the cart, prepared to run—but the alley behind him was empty. There was no one there.

Another breeze rustled the leaves, and as he watched, a squirrel ran up a tree. No one else was to be seen.

His heart racing, his mouth dry at the sudden memory of Javert’s weight on top of him, Valjean at last forced himself to turn around. The horse was still slowly making its way forward. They turned another corner—and there, at last, was the welcome, beckoning gate that promised escape from all the dangers of the outside.

Even as the gate closed behind him, Valjean’s heart was still thudding painfully in his chest. But no one had called out for him. No hidden agents had sprung forward to seize and chain him.

Inside the convent, everything was as it had always been. The garden was quiet. In the distance, there was the soft sound of song, the same celestial harmonies weaving through the air that had once greeted him and Cosette.

When he drove the wagon towards the small stable, Fauchelevent was waiting for him despite his aching knee. Valjean let him deal with the horse while he made certain to unload the wagon before Fauchelevent could offer his help with the crates.

Everything was as it had always been.

Inside the convent, even the air smelled differently. A blue sky spread above Valjean, and grey walls kept him save from everything that might come to pass outside.

He was home. He was safe. He had no reason to be afraid.

Even so, as Valjean went about his day’s work, scaling the roof of the kitchen to repair the damage the last storm had wrought, and then cutting back the vines that eternally crept up the eastern wall, he could not help but remember those impossible days he had spent in the Gorbeau tenement, and the unexpected warmth of Javert’s mouth against his.

Would those memories never cease to haunt him? Surely behind these walls, nothing profane could enter. Surely even his body, sinful vessel that it was, could be forced back onto a path of purity by following the example of the nuns, whose reparation never ceased to make him shudder with admiration, and dread of once being judged for all he had been and done.

That same night, it was difficult to find rest. After two hours awake in his bed, desperately folding his hands in prayer while he listened to the regular sound of Fauchelevent’s breathing, Valjean at last rose and left the small hut.

Outside, the air was cool. There were no clouds. The sky was filled by stars, and as Valjean took a deep breath, he felt calmness enter him, his fevered mind at last coming to rest.

Everything was quiet. The silence filled him, cooling the heat in his chest until the terror he had felt since noon seemed a small and unimportant thing.

It could not have been Javert. And even if it had been, Javert would not have been able to follow him—or, if he had, Javert could not enter the convent.

Valjean was as safe here as he had always been.

Slowly, Valjean made his way towards the old convent with its broken walls and ruined roof. No one but Valjean ever visited this place. Here, he could safely spend an hour or two in prayer on his knees, alone and cloaked by the night, and when he rose, his heart would be filled with calmness at last, and he would be able to find rest.

Valjean looked up at the sky once more, taking note of how the moon had begun to rise over the roof of the convent. Then he turned towards the chapel’s door—only to freeze, his heart suddenly beating in his throat when he saw a shadow move on the wall.

Here, where the wall that surrounded the convent was as its lowest, Valjean had long since hidden a coiled rope, in case it would ever become necessary to quickly leave as he had come.

But whoever had scaled the wall had come from the street beyond, for now the shadow detached itself from the wall and jumped into the garden, not far from where Valjean was still frozen in dread.

A moment passed. Then the shadowed figure slowly came forward—and Valjean’s heart skipped a beat as some old instinct within him recognized the lofty stature and the broad shoulders, even before the man moved into what little light the moon offered.

It was Javert.

Javert had just entered the convent’s garden at night. And when their eyes met a heartbeat later, something in Valjean knew why he had come.


	50. Chapter 50

It felt as if a fever had taken hold of Javert from the first moment he had spied what seemed to him a familiar figure at the market. The apparition had broad shoulders, and a strong body hidden beneath unassuming clothes. It could have been any man.

But somewhere inside Javert, that unfailing guard dog that had never lost the scent of its prey had sprung to attention.

And then their eyes met. It was only for a heartbeat, but to Javert, it felt as though the foundations of the earth were crumbling beneath him.

Years had passed. He had thought those ill-advised passions long behind him, a momentary lapse in judgement, a failing it was too late to correct.

But in that blink of an eye, it all came back: the yielding warmth of Valjean’s body, the taste of his mouth, the tenderness of the skin of his thighs, the courage of Valjean as he jumped out of a window while carrying him.

The times Valjean had been utterly undone whenever Javert had claimed possession of his body.

Then the moment was over. The market crowd kept surging forward, and for a second or two, Javert lost sight of Jean Valjean.

He did not think twice. Without a second of doubt, Javert threw himself forward, making his way through the crowd as quickly as he could. By the time he made it to where Valjean had stood, the man had gone—but fate was with Javert that day, and he was granted sight of a cart before it turned a corner, a familiar figure holding the reins.

For half an hour Javert followed that wagon, until at last it vanished through a gate. The gate belonged to a convent, so Javert learned, and even an agent of police could not enter such a place. 

The man he had once been would have bowed to that authority, returning to the station-house to petition a superior. Instead, filled by a steadily mounting excitement and a nervous dread, Javert walked the streets surrounding the convent until he found a spot where the wall was at its lowest, waiting for the cover of night before he scaled the wall and then dropped into the grounds beyond.

That was when he saw him.

It had to be close to midnight. Everything had been silent for at least an hour, the inhabitants of any nearby houses long since in their beds. There had been no sound. But when Javert straightened, there was a figure standing not far from him, moonlight illuminating hair that shone like silver.

Jean Valjean.

Javert could not make out his eyes in the darkness, but even so his throat went dry. He had not thought about what he would say if he found Valjean. Instinct had driven Javert forward since that moment he had laid eyes on him at the market, and now that Javert was here, now that he was facing Jean Valjean for the first time in four years, Javert did not know what to say or do.

Valjean had frozen. He, too, did not speak, but after a moment, a shudder went through him, and he came forward with slow, reluctant steps. When he was close enough that Javert could make out his features in the sparse moonlight, Javert could see that his eyes were wide and his face was pale.

“Javert,” Valjean said, no more. He was nearly close enough to touch.

Valjean had not changed much. For one wild moment, Javert wondered whether the passing years had been but a dream, and they were still standing facing each other in that garden near Montfermeil.

Then Javert reached out.

Valjean trembled when Javert pressed his hand to his chest. What was that emotion in Valjean’s eyes? It was too dark to say. Even so, the mere touch was enough to tear Javert out of the memories of what had been. In their stead, a new emotion rose with brutal force, a desire so strong that it was all Javert could do to grind his teeth against the assault.

Valjean was warm beneath his touch. After years of dreams haunting his nights, it was no specter standing before him. This was Jean Valjean, his heart racing beneath Javert’s hand, the muscles beneath his skin hard as stone. This was the man he had once whipped until he bled. This was the man he had seen at his most vulnerable, his mouth slack and face flushed as he spent himself.

This…

Javert realized that his fingers had tightened in the fabric of Valjean’s shirt. A heartbeat later, he had pulled Valjean so close that he could have kissed him, had he desired so. Dimly, Javert could hear the sound of his own panting breath over the roar of his pulse in his ears.

“Why?” Javert asked. He did not know where the question had come from, but all of a sudden, it seemed to be the force that had driven him here, the one thing he needed to know.

Jean Valjean was very still. His eyes were dark, but they were so close now that Javert could see them gleam. Was it fear?

Was it some other, nameless thing?

The hunger in Javert rose with vicious force; just as viciously, Javert beat it down. They stood silently, as if sprung from some mural, a tableau of hunter and hunted, vengeful angel and penitent sinner—or perhaps, simpler than that, friend turned enemy, or enemy turned friend. Javert could no longer tell.

Then Valjean reached out.

At the touch of Valjean’s hand against his shoulder, Javert flinched back—but only for a moment. Then he pressed forward, the wild thing in him taking over until both of his hands had grabbed Valjean by the shoulders and he had pulled Valjean so close that he could feel the heat of his rapid breathing.

Still Valjean did not speak. His eyes were still wide, but against his chest, Javert could now feel the beating of that powerful heart. Valjean’s heart was racing—but it was not from fear. Javert knew. The memories of those other times when Valjean had pressed himself to his body, damp with sweat and helpless beneath him, rose up within him until they blocked out everything else.

“Why?” Javert forced out again. Only now did he realize that he was trembling. He could not take his eyes off Valjean’s face.

Even now, Valjean had not stirred. Despite his strength, he had made no effort to free himself from Javert’s grasp. Instead, he stood silently in the moonlight, eyes wide and his mouth strangely vulnerable.

“Why… did I leave?” Valjean asked at last. He spoke softly, as though he was afraid they might be overheard, but even so there was a familiar roughness in his voice.

Javert laughed voicelessly, all of a sudden angry at himself. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? You ran before, after all! I knew you’d run again. I knew it. And still…”

He broke off, unable to put into words what he had never been able to voice before. There was no name for those strange weeks they had shared, the days of truce, those moments he had taken Valjean into his bed and they had clung to each other, the ecstasy of Valjean yielding himself to him again and again and again.

“Never mind that,” Javert said roughly. “But the letter, good God, that letter, man! To write such a thing, to _me_ , to write and to say such things and still to say _nothing at all_ , to—“

Unable to continue, he laughed again, shaking his head as he stared at Valjean in the moonlight. Did he imagine it, or had Valjean flushed?

“Forgive me.” Valjean hesitated a moment. “I didn’t want you to think that something ill had befallen Cosette. Or me. I thought that you might—but no matter. I know the truth of what’s between us. I always knew it. You’ll think it rebellion, and of course, it was. But I had to—”

There was another crumbling wall behind Valjean. When he broke off, he took hold of Javert’s hand, looking around, still wide-eyed and spooked, but with a quiet determination that Javert found impossible to resist. A moment later, they stood behind what seemed to be a small building in ill repair. The wall was covered in weeds growing from the cracks between stones, the building by all appearances abandoned for many years.

“Here,” Valjean said softly. “No one will see you here.”

Again Javert felt his lips draw back, his laughter nearly silent and bitter.

A heartbeat later, he had Valjean pressed against the wall.

The sensation was familiar, and something inside him rose in triumph at having this man once more forced into submission, Valjean’s heart racing at his touch, the strong body shivering and at his mercy.

Javert stared into Valjean’s eyes. A long moment passed. Then Valjean sighed, and something inside him seemed to soften. He relaxed against the wall.

“This, then?”

Javert felt himself bristling at the question, but even so, the animal inside him was drunk on triumph, teeth bared, his body roused with a fierce hunger. Valjean watched him quietly, offering no resistance. Whatever it was that was shining from his eyes, it was not fear.

Was Javert truly that easy to play?

Brusquely, he grabbed hold of Valjean’s hand and pressed it straight to where his prick was throbbing in his trousers. That, at last, earned him a gasp. Javert’s lips twisted into a smile.

“Well? Take it out already,” Javert demanded. “It’s what you want, isn’t it? I remember how much you liked it back then.”

It was too dark to see whether Valjean blushed, but Javert knew—knew by the trembling of Valjean’s lips and the way his eyes strayed away for a moment, even as his hand offered no resistance.

A moment later, Valjean was opening the flap of Javert’s trousers. Then he was in Valjean’s hand, aching at the touch he had nearly forgotten.

“Is it what _you_ want?” Valjean asked softly. He hesitated a moment, moistening his lips as he looked around, although it was dark and everything was quiet. Then his fingers curled around Javert and he stroked him.

“What I want?” Despite the heat coursing through his veins, Javert bared his teeth like a tiger about to attack. In his head, everything was chaos.

What he had planned to do had fallen apart. Something about Jean Valjean still seemed to unsettle the very foundations upon which he walked. Near Jean Valjean, there was no order—there was only the strange pull of this thing between them, and as unsavory as it was, now that he had Valjean in front of him once more, Javert felt helpless in the face of it.

“Oh no. Let’s talk about what _you_ want. Because I know what you want.” Javert’s lips pulled back for a fierce smile. “This. Inside you. Isn’t that the truth? Haven’t you dreamed of it? Or have you found someone else to give you—”

Again Valjean gasped. His fingers were tight around Javert’s prick, rubbing at him with just the right amount of urgency, and when Javert leaned forward, he found that Valjean’s face was hot when pressed against his own.

“Please,” Valjean said, his breath tremulous. “You do not know—this place, I would not profane it with my—is that why you think I left?”

Javert reared back, jealousy erupting within him at the same time as disgust at himself. Had it come so far?

Even so, he could not help the words that rushed out of him at that provocation.

“That letter, Jean Valjean,” he muttered from between clenched teeth, “that damn letter. To send such a thing! To say such things! To me! And then, to say such things but still run? And then, what about what you said back then? _Let us continue as we were before_ —yes, that was what you said. Of course, it is I who is the fool for going along with such a charade. And even so, I think of how you looked late at night, Jean Valjean, your body drenched with sweat, how you clung to me when I claimed you, how you trembled to feel me inside you. Do you think to have secrets from me now? I remember those moments well, all of them. Do you?”

There was the sheen of sweat on Valjean’s brow. His fingers were still curled around Javert’s prick, but he had ceased his movements.

“I enjoyed it,” Valjean whispered desperately, “God help me, you know I did. It’s not why I ran. It wasn’t for me. It was for Cosette. Someone recognized me. I had to leave, don’t you see? I could let nothing of that world touch her.”

"So you ran.” Javert bit back another laugh. "Very well then, Jean Valjean. So you didn't want me to worry? Or perhaps you sent that letter because you didn't want me to search for you?"

Quietly, Valjean shook his head. His eyes were wide. His fingers twitched against Javert’s swollen shaft.

"No? And no one else to give you—this?" Javert pushed forward into Valjean's grasp, and now a soft sound escaped Valjean, something lost and hungry.

"There. Have I not known it all along," Javert muttered. And then, a little louder, "Turn around."

That brought him a gasp at last, Valjean stiffening, his throat moving for a moment as though he wanted to protest.

But then, still quiet, Valjean released him and turned around, facing the dirty brick wall. 

Javert reached around him to open his trousers, then pushed them down. Valjean was hard; Javert ignored the man's arousal. Instead, he pressed himself against Valjean's backside, his own prick nestling eagerly between warm cheeks, and now at last Valjean groaned and shifted.

Satisfied, Javert wound one arm around his chest, pulling him close. "It’s what you want. Isn't it? Say it," he demanded, his breath coming fast as he rubbed himself against Valjean's hot skin. "Say it, and you can have it again."

It was madness—but then it had always been madness. Whatever reasons Javert had given himself for his pursuit of Valjean over the walls of the convent, they had all escaped him now.

There was no place for reason. The fire in his blood had burned away all thought until nothing was left but the memory of Valjean warm and willing beneath him, those moments they had strained together.

Javert panted against Valjean’s neck, and now, at last, Valjean shivered.

"I want it," Valjean said. "God forgive me, but I want it."

A hoarse sound of triumph escaped Javert, Valjean's neck warm and damp against his lips. He pushed against Valjean's buttocks once more, Valjean's thighs spreading further in response.

"I have no—" Javert began, and Valjean groaned and shook his head.

"No matter. We had little comforts in Toulon," he said, and then, when Javert didn't move, "spit will do."

Javert felt heat spread across Valjean’s nape, as if only now his words had caught up with him.

Again Javert laughed hoarsely against his neck, the feral thing inside him pleased by the notion.

"Very well then," Javert muttered. He was no innocent; he had seen convicts do it before, after all, and distaste at the memory mingled with a strange fury at himself as he spat into his hand.

It did not suffice to make it as easy as the oil had, but Valjean was willing enough, as he had been back then.

All jealousy and disgust fled when Javert pushed inside, Valjean’s body yielding itself to him even as Valjean drew in a shocked breath at the intrusion.

If it hurt—it had to hurt, Javert thought, but then, was not Valjean used to it?—Valjean gave no sign of it but a soft groan and his labored breathing. Gloating, possessive, comforting, Javert tightened his arm around Valjean’s chest, burying his head against his neck, tasting the salt on Valjean’s skin as he managed to push deeper inside.

And there, at last, he found Valjean's pleasure, the strong body quivering in his arms as Valjean moaned helplessly, his head tilting to the side.

It was as it had always been: heat all around Javert, drawing him in, the scent of Valjean’s skin and his sweat surrounding him as he lost himself in the warmth of Valjean’s body, the intoxicating response to each and every of his thrusts.

He reached around Valjean once more, finding him swollen against his stomach. Javert gave the proud length a little tug, the muscles of Valjean’s thighs quivering helplessly as he did so. Then, just before it all became too much, he released Valjean's shaft to his disappointed moan, taking hold of his testes instead just in time to feel them pulse with release as he tightened his fingers around them.

With another muffled sound of overwhelmed ecstasy, Valjean spilled himself against the wall. Javert closed his eyes, sinking his teeth into Valjean's neck as his hips snapped forward, his own release pulled from him by the sight and the feel of the powerful body surrendering to pleasure in his arms.

"Still mine," he muttered against hot skin, "still mine," and if Valjean heard what he said, he gave no sign of it.


	51. Chapter 51

Everything was dark. Valjean could barely make out the stones that formed the crumbling wall he held on to, but even though it was quiet, and although he knew that no one could have observed him in the middle of the night, hidden behind the abandoned ruin of the old convent, guilt was rising once more as desire receded.

Javert's breath against his skin was warm and damp. A moment ago it had made him shiver with need. Now a shiver of a different kind ran through him: was this the hot breath of the predator, moments before its jaw would close around its prey?

Valjean took a deep breath, concentrating on the texture of dusty mortar beneath his fingertips.

No. Certainly, if that was what Javert wanted, he would have arrested Valjean right there at the market.

It felt to him as though they stood like this for a long moment: silent, unmoving, Javert still inside him, his arm tight around Valjean’s heaving chest.

Then, at last, Javert moved off him. Quickly, Valjean reached down to pull his trousers up once more, sick with shame as he listened for the familiar, faint sound of song in the quiet of the night.

But there were none of the harmonies that had greeted Cosette and him when they had first arrived. Perhaps, just for these few minutes, God had not been watching.

When he turned around at last, Javert was still very close. He, too, had pulled up his clothes—but he had not moved back. As Valjean quietly gazed at him, he reached out once more. Valjean nearly flinched when Javert's hand touched him, a finger trailing down his face.

"You." Javert’s voice was still rough. "It's truly you."

"You saw me at the market," Valjean said. At Javert's nod, he continued, “Why follow me? You could have had me arrested there. You have that right; we both know it."

At the question, Javert had stiffened; when he spoke, he sounded angry. "Arrested? When I could have—what do you know of what I want, Jean Valjean?"

A heartbeat later, Valjean found himself once more pressed against the wall. The night air smelled of the coming cold, fallen leaves, and the salt of sweat and desire. Then Javert's mouth was on his own, teeth rasping against his lip before a hot tongue slid into his mouth. Valjean moaned despite himself as Javert quivered against him with some inner anger Valjean could not explain.

"If I’d wanted you arrested, I could have done so back in the Gorbeau tenement," Javert said when he pulled back at last, the kiss as vicious as his words. "I could’ve had you in chains. I could’ve made sure you couldn't run. Did I do any of those things? Well? Did I?"

Mutely, Valjean shook his head.

Javert scoffed. “Arrested! When I defied all that was good and proper, when I let you run, when I let you rebel again and again and I—”

“So you came for _me_?” Valjean interrupted. He stared at Javert who was nearly panting in his agitation. Valjean thought again of what had been – those days when Javert had come to him at night, the rare Sundays when Javert had sat at his table.

“I came for—” Javert broke off, his jaw hardening even though his eyes seemed lost.

“I don’t know,” Javert finally admitted, voice low. “I don’t know. If you’re afraid that I came to arrest you—I didn’t come to drag you back in chains, Jean Valjean, even though I should. Perhaps I should.”

Again he hesitated. Then, at last, he reached out once more, and Valjean drew in a shocked breath when Javert’s hand came to rest on his chest.

“But I couldn’t. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. That’s been true for a while now. That’s what you’ve done to me, Jean Valjean.”

Javert’s laugh was low and bitter, but he did not take his hand away.

“When I ran,” Valjean hesitantly offered up, his heart pounding in his chest, “It had nothing to do with you.”

“But if it had—I’d only have myself to blame. Isn’t that true?” Javert smiled bitterly as his thumb moved slowly against Valjean’s chest, making Valjean tremble at the memory of the hot iron.

Valjean remained silent. He did not know what to say in response, for of course Javert was right. And yet, on the other hand, despite the truth of that pain hanging between them, had he not willingly given himself to Javert before?

“You said that you didn’t dare hope for affection,” Javert continued at last. “I’ve been wondering… Was there affection on your part then?”

A shudder ran through Valjean. “It was a comfort. That was what I asked for, and what you agreed to. A comfort, for—“

“Ah, but you were no longer in chains,” Javert said roughly. “No longer sleeping on wooden planks, no longer chained to other convicts, no longer starving and working from dawn to dusk. Were you truly in need of comfort?”

Silently, Valjean stared at Javert, his heart racing as he tried to remember the comforting warmth of Boucard’s embrace after an agonizing day beneath the guards’ watchful eyes and quick cudgels. The memory wouldn’t come. Instead, all he could feel was the sensation of Javert sinking into him, the softness of the mattress beneath them, the way Javert had sat at his table and shameless stared at him from dark, hooded eyes.

Javert’s mouth twisted into a humorless smile. A moment later, his mouth was on Valjean’s again, his hands on Valjean’s lapels to hold him in place.

He would not have needed to. Beneath the dizzying onslaught, Valjean’s lips opened up to him once more, his body yielding instinctively to rough lips and a hot tongue that filled his mouth with the strange, dizzying sense of _Javert_. There was something acrid in it, something bitter, as though any such touch was charged with the lethal energy of lightning. And yet, all the same, something about the heat made Valjean’s body yield, so that long moments later he found himself clutching at Javert’s shoulders, gasping for breath when Javert released him at last.

“Was that comfort?” Javert asked, his eyes unreadable. “Tell me truly, Valjean. Was it comfort?”

Valjean swallowed desperately. The words were hard to speak, but that did not make them not true. “Not comfort. Simply my own weakness.”

His heart was still pounding. He felt dizzy. Javert had left him sore, but despite the aching of his bruised body and the shame of having succumbed to such a thing here, in this place, there was a part of him that had been yearning for such a touch for a long time.

And that part of him was sated now. Perhaps it had always been within him, even in those years when he had been younger, and when it had been easier to ignore.

He should have been happy in the convent of Petit-Picpus. He had Cosette. He had a friend here in Fauchelevent. He had safety.

But somehow, the quieter Jean Valjean’s mind grew, the hungrier his body had grown, remembering those times when they had come together with a persistent, hollow ache. Perhaps this was a thing one could not hide from even in a convent. Perhaps, had he acknowledged it and done repentance for it in the way of the nuns—

“Weakness.” Javert’s lips twisted. “Yes. I have no doubt of that.”

“But it was a comfort nevertheless,” Valjean added after a moment. “One might not be in need of comfort, but still crave a kind touch.”

Javert swallowed. “I am not a kind man.”

“No,” Valjean agreed. He still felt dizzy. He was not quite certain what they were talking about. Javert should not even be here—and Valjean should never have done what he had done, here in the convent. “But surely even a man devoid of kindness might want comfort, or closeness. To feel a touch, every now and then.”

Javert’s laughter was harsh and pained. “And you, Jean Valjean? What does a man want who pretends to be nothing but kindness?”

Valjean’s face flushed with despairing heat. “I have admitted my weakness to you. What more do you want? I enjoyed it. God help me, I enjoyed it. Is that so unbelievable?”

"Not unbelievable at all. Not anymore," Javert said quietly.

"What do you want?" Valjean’s face burned to ask such a thing, something twisting in his stomach once more as he thought of the chains and the collar, and Cosette's eyes on him... But no. No. Surely that was not what Javert had come for. Had Javert not let him go before?

Javert laughed again, then thrust a hand into his hair in frustration. "The same thing you do. Not comfort—what need do I have of comfort? But it haunts me, Jean Valjean. You haunt me. I cannot forget. I cannot forgive you for what you've done. At night, I lie awake and I remember... I want..."

Javert hesitated, a shiver running through him, and Valjean had to swallow as for a moment, he imagined Javert stretched out on a narrow bed, illuminated by the moon, naked and aroused.

The image should have frightened him, but for some reason, much of the fear was gone. Javert did not seem frightening anymore, even in his desire.

"I want—perhaps what I want is simply a return to what was before." Javert grimaced, then kept muttering. "Impossible. And then, he ran. Even if I had that again, who's to say he wouldn't run again? Chains would keep him from running. Chains are my right, of course. And yet..."

"You’d have to trust me,” Valjean said slowly. "And how can you trust me when—"

"When you run every time someone so much as looks at you?" Javert barked out a laugh, tugging at his whiskers. "And here I am, breaking into a convent at night to talk to a convict! A convict-slave at that, whom I should have in chains, and yet—"

"I prefer this conversation," Valjean murmured after a moment when Javert did not continue. It was tentative, the humor as much an offer as a question, and when Javert released another hoarse laugh after a moment, Valjean's shoulders relaxed.

It was late, and Valjean was tired. Moreover, he was sore now, his body spent and exhausted.

"I'd say the same, Jean Valjean, but how do I know you won't run again, rather than talk to me?"

And then, was talking all Javert desired from him? The events of the past minute certainly had proved different.

Valjean flushed again as he thought of their surroundings. "You cannot stay here, that's for certain. If a nun sees you—father Fauchelevent and I wear bells at our knee, you see, to warn them of our presence. No man can enter—"

"Fauchelevent?" Javert now exclaimed, staring at Valjean with utter confusion. "How—no, save it," he interrupted himself, reaching out once more to grab Valjean's arm. "I shouldn't be surprised; no, not when it's you, Jean Valjean. Tell me another time. If you'll still be here, of course; who knows, if I let you go now, you won't run as soon as I'm out of your sight—"

"Promise me one thing," Valjean interrupted breathlessly, his heart pounding in his chest.

Javert was still grabbing his arm; courageously, Valjean took a step forward until they stood chest to chest once more.

"I know I have no right to demand things of you, but if you give me your promise that you won't put chains on me, and that you will not let Cosette see… Please, Javert. If you give me that promise, then I in return will swear not to run. This is a good place, you must see that. I work the land; I harm no one. And Cosette is taught in the convent school alongside the other children. The sisters accepted her as a pupil when we first came here four years ago; she is a good child, a good student, and if she so desires, she might be a postulant in two years."

Valjean trembled to speak it aloud. As sweet as it had seemed to live behind these walls with Cosette until the end of his life, a part of him could not help but think of what lay beyond these walls, and what would be forever denied Cosette.

"Raised in a convent?" Javert laughed, then shook his head, clearly disturbed. "Honest work, Valjean; she was to be taught honest work, not—but then, a girl born from such circumstances, surely is best placed into the hands of sisters such as these? I find I cannot argue with such authority, and yet..."

Javert fell silent. After a long moment, he released a breath. "No chains," he muttered, sounding confused, as if his own words were deeply disturbing to him. "No words to the girl. For now. I can promise you that much at least, Jean Valjean. I didn't come to drag you away in chains. I came because—”

“Because one who has known comfort comes to crave it again,” Valjean finished softly, his heart aching as he suddenly thought of Boucard once more. How strange that he had sent a letter to Javert, but not Boucard.

Perhaps the man was long dead. Perhaps he no longer remembered Jean Valjean. Still, Valjean could have at least sent a letter to Bordeaux…

“Perhaps I’m as weak as you.” Again Javert stared at him from unreadable eyes. “I must be mad—breaking the law to enter a convent, scaling a wall like a bagnard about to escape. But then, haven’t I always known what I was made of? I shouldn’t be so surprised that I have failed at last.”

“Hardly a great fault,” Valjean murmured, still so close to Javert that he could feel his warmth. “You didn’t break in to steal. Surely a case could be made that you have come simply to retrieve—“

“Be silent, Jean Valjean,” Javert said, not unkindly. “You know little of these things. I won’t be judged by you; once was more than enough. You have no moral authority over me.”

“But I’m here,” Valjean said softly. “What now?”

Again Javert made a despairing sound. “What now, he asks? What now… I don’t know, Jean Valjean. I don’t even know why I came. Only, I couldn’t stay away. And now I don’t want to leave.”

“You cannot stay,” Valjean said quietly, glancing at the sky. “But… you can return.”

His heart gave a strange little jolt in his chest at the words. Another sound escaped Javert—a broken laugh, a terrible, hoarse sound of despair.

“Yes. Of course. I can return—at night, like a criminal. And will you still be here, Jean Valjean? Or won’t you use that chance to—” Abruptly, Javert broke off. A moment later, he took a deep breath.

“That is very well,” Javert muttered. “I will return. And then, we shall see if you’re still here.” 

Again there came his rusty laugh, and all of a sudden Valjean found himself holding on to Javert’s shoulders once more, Javert’s mouth on his as hot as a brand.

“I’ll return,” Javert muttered when he drew back, “I’ll return.”

Valjean watched, moments later, as a shadow scaled the wall once more, his heart beating fast in his chest as that familiar, tall figure vanished into the darkness as abruptly as it had appeared.

Everything was silent.

The garden was still dark, the ruins of the old convent still abandoned, as though nothing of what made Valjean’s heart race had come to pass this night.


	52. Chapter 52

It was dark when Javert returned to the by now familiar street. Close to midnight, the streets were deserted. Stubbornly, he refused to acknowledge the uneasiness eating away at his insides as he climbed the wall: he was no criminal, and entering the convent in such a way would not make him a criminal either. He did not care about the convent’s rules; furthermore, he had no interest in the buildings and gardens behind these walls. Javert came seeking one thing, and one thing only: Jean Valjean.

Perhaps that was even more damning than breaking into a convent with the intention of robbing a golden altarpiece. And yet it was a need he could not ignore, or find an explanation for.

Jean Valjean was still his possession in the eyes of the law—but Javert did not come to bring him to justice, or to reclaim what was rightfully his property.

Javert came because he had no other choice, relentlessly drawn towards what was waiting behind these walls like iron to a magnet.

“And then, we’ll see whether he’s even still there,” Javert muttered when he had made it to the top of the wall. In this spot, the wall ran so low to the ground that with the help of some wooden boxes he had brought the night before, it could be easily scaled.

“He might not be. He mind not be, and what’ll you do then?” Soundlessly, Javert laughed to himself, torn between the hope that Valjean might have fled indeed, sparing Javert the indignity of further illicit visits, and the overpowering need to have Valjean’s body bared to his eyes.

“Better for you if he weren’t,” Javert muttered through clenched teeth as he clung to the stone, “better for you—”

There, in the darkness beyond the wall, a lone figure stood waiting. Javert’s breath went out of him at the sight of broad shoulders and pale hair.

Awkwardly, Javert descended. In the silence, every beat of his heart resounded within him like a bell. Then he stood in front of him once more.

“You have returned,” Valjean said quietly.

“You are still here.” Heat had gathered in his belly, Javert’s blood pulsing with that old, violent need.

For a long moment, they stared at each other.

“I said I would not run.”

“You say many things,” Javert muttered. “And that particular promise I’ve heard several times.”

Valjean bent his head in acknowledgment.

“So. Here you are.” Javert bared his teeth at the wild exhilaration within him. “And here I am. Come like a thief in the night. What now?”

“Come. Someone might see,” Valjean murmured, and again Javert found himself drawn forward, until at last they were sheltered from view by the old ruin.

“Oh, let them see—it’s the middle of the night. Who would see?” Javert said fretfully. “Truly, Jean Valjean, you—”

In the darkness, Javert’s feet had met resistance. With a frown, he stopped; there had been no such obstacle when they had hidden here during the past night.

Had Valjean laid a trap? Had they surprised someone spying on them? Or had—

“It’s but the straw mats,” Valjean said.

For some reason, despite the darkness, Javert knew that Valjean was flushing. Something in his voice gave it away, and when Javert pressed forward, he could feel the heat rising from Valjean’s skin.

“Straw mats,” Javert repeated. It came out low and threatening.

Valjean swallowed. “Winter is near. At night, when it’s cold, we cover the melons in case there is frost.”

“Straw mats to cover the melons,” Javert echoed.

Valjean had not backed away. They were so close that he could feel Valjean tremble against him.

“I left them here. In case… you might want…”

Valjean broke off, clearly embarrassed, and once more a fierce triumph rose inside Javert.

“In case of what, Jean Valjean? Out with it.”

Valjean was still trembling, but although he spoke slowly, he gave Javert what he had wanted to hear. “In case you wanted what you did last night.”

“Ah.” Javert spoke the word with a deep satisfaction. “So there it is. You’ve made a bed, here, in the shadows of a ruin, and I’m sure you’d willingly lie down, too. And why is that? Because you think it’s easier to simply give me what you think I want? Because you think this way, I won’t pull you out of this place on a chain? I’ve told you once before, Jean Valjean, I won’t make a deal.”

Valjean exhaled shakily. A moment later, Javert felt a tentative hand on his arm.

“Not a deal. I’ve told you before, I know that in the eyes of the law, I am… Nothing I do can change that.”

“Why then?” Javert asked relentlessly, his prick pulsing with insistent arousal.

“You know it. Must you make me admit it again and again?”

“Yes,” Javert said, the hunger inside him rising up once more.

“Because I want it too.” Valjean rubbed a trembling hand over his face. “Even here. Even now. I want—I want it too.”

“And I,” Javert murmured, “I want you. I want your surrender. Even here. Even though I come to you like a thief in the night. Even though you make me break the law in scaling these walls. Even though I know I shouldn’t let you go free. I want it again. I want to feel you tremble to have me inside you.”

Valjean exhaled another nervous sound. “I have—”

A heartbeat later, something was pressed into Javert’s hand. “Lamp oil,” Valjean added at Javert’s silence. “I… please.”

Javert laughed quietly, but then pushed Valjean down onto the straw mats. Valjean went down willingly.

“Could I make you beg for it, I wonder?” Javert mused as he roughly pulled off Valjean’s shirt.

In embarrassed silence, Valjean lay beneath him, offering no resistance, and Javert laughed again.

“Comfort.” The thought made Javert scoff, but already his own flesh was so hard it was difficult to think beyond the need to see Valjean spread out beneath him, warm and eager, as he had always been.

The oil made it easy to at last push inside. Valjean’s hands were on his arms, and at the penetration, he groaned, strong thighs damp with sweat against Javert’s hips.

“Is it good?” Javert demanded. “Is it worth all this? Is this what you’ve missed, what you’ve thought of, what you’ve stolen straw mats for and—”

Valjean moaned desperately. He pressed his damp cheek to Javert’s own, his body tense as he arched against him—and just like that, Javert found himself returned to that budding intimacy of the Gorbeau tenement, the coldness of the night and the desolate ruin of their surroundings fading away as his body remembered what had been.

When it was done, Valjean rested beside him, warm and familiar. Valjean was breathing slowly. It was still too dark to make out his expression, but Javert found himself watching him anyway.

Valjean offered no resistance. He did not move away when their bodies cooled, the wind that found entrance through window holes and crumbling walls biting at their exposed skin.

“I don’t understand you,” Javert muttered at last. He leaned over Valjean, watching the gleam of his eyes as Valjean exhaled.

At last, with a sigh, Valjean stirred. He pressed his hand to Javert’s cheek. “I have no explanations. Only…”

“Only what?” Javert demanded.

“It’s weakness, if it’s anything,” Valjean murmured. “But surely you must know by now there’s nothing more than that in it. My own weakness.”

“And mine?” Javert grimaced even as he asked it. “No, don’t bother, I don’t need to hear it from your lips.”

“Does it matter what it is?” Valjean sat up as well. “If you must put words to it—well, you’ve known it from the start. I’m not who you think I am—”

“Not a murderer, no,” Javert admitted. “Perhaps—perhaps not even a dangerous man. But you’re a convict, Jean Valjean. That does not change.”

“I know,” Valjean said quietly. “But surely that’s my own guilt to bear. My own shame.”

Javert scoffed, standing at last to quickly draw on his clothes once more.

“I’m no liar, Jean Valjean. I’ve been honest all my life, and I’ll be honest in this as well. There is shame in breaking into a convent in the dark of the night, and that shame is my own to bear.”

When Javert had dressed, Valjean rose as well. He stood in the darkness like a statue, although Javert could still smell the scent of his sweat on his own skin. Javert watched him, and even now, when shame filled him at the thought of what he had become, the thought of how Valjean had arched against him kindled new heat.

“It would take but a word to drag me from this place,” Valjean said very softly.

“It would.” Violently, Javert turned, heading towards the wall once more. “You don’t need to remind me of that.”

***

Try as he might, Javert could not stay away.

At first he had told himself that it would not happen again, that it was only shock that had made him seek out Valjean, that Javert would not climb a wall at midnight again like a thief.

A mere two weeks later, Javert found himself hiding among the ruins of the old convent in broad daylight, something inside his stomach twisting so that he almost feared he would be sick.

To meet Valjean in the middle of the night was one thing, but to wait until the sun rose, to remain in this place where someone like him had no right to be, to openly defy authority, the stern principles that governed places like these…

“Damn you, Jean Valjean,” Javert muttered to himself, hidden behind a chimney and the boughs of an elderberry tree that stretched across the ruined roof here.

It had been Jean Valjean’s idea, of course. A plan only a criminal would come up with when Javert had sought to remind him that it was Javert who had been designated the child’s guardian—and Javert who had failed the law, too, when he had chosen not to report Valjean’s disappearance with the girl.

Somewhere below, Valjean was tending to the garden. There were no patches of vegetables growing here by the old convent, but Valjean had planted seedlings of plum, pear and apple trees years ago, or so Javert had been told. Valjean was now tending to the young trees, pruning and weeding, and keeping a watchful eye on the garden.

Nearby, a group of pupils had gathered. They could not see Valjean, but Javert could see past the hedge that stood between them. Beyond the hedge, there stood a bench of stone, and there five girls had gathered with a book on history, or so their conversation told Javert.

“Spying on children,” Javert muttered with disgust, but even so he found his eyes drawn to the girls again.

It had been four years since he had seen Cosette. Perhaps, as much as this plan of Valjean’s was utter madness, it would be good to be able to give the justice of the peace a report on the girl’s education in all truthfulness.

The girls were all dressed in the uniform of the convent school, wearing blue dresses with white caps, a Holy Spirit of silver on their breast, and differing only in height and the color of the locks hidden beneath the cap.

Despite the years that had passed, Javert recognized the girl immediately: thin and gangly, with limp hair and the narrow, suspicious mouth of the gamin, Cosette sat at the end of the bench. Next to her, four bourgeois girls were discussing a passage of their book with much laughter.

How old was she now? She had to be twelve, Javert thought as he critically eyed Cosette.

Well, she was clothed and fed—better than she deserved, he supposed, but it was not his place to argue with sisters of charity about the recipients of such charity. To see her sitting there, standing out as much as a sparrow among doves, aroused the old revulsion in Javert at seeing the natural order of society subverted. Surely Cosette had no place among these children of electors—and yet, there was truth in what Valjean had claimed. Even a child of such a background could take the veil.

Perhaps it would indeed be for the best: a child of a whore could become a nun, just as the son of a criminal could become an agent of police.

It was a difficult path, and one he was not certain Valjean—whose disregard of the truths of order and society had for so long infuriated Javert—could be trusted with supervising. And yet, there she sat, never to belong among those bourgeois pupils, but by all appearances walking that hard road of honesty.

In the garden below Javert, the sudden tinkling of the bell fastened to Valjean’s knee could be heard. With a muted giggle, the girls leapt from their bench—except for one girl, who remained behind as the others ran back towards the convent.

But it was the wrong girl who had remained behind. Cosette, with her lanky figure and limp strands of hair, the cap somewhat sloppily in place, had run off with three of the bourgeois girls.

Instead, the girl who had remained behind was the one who had brought the book, neatly sitting on the bench with her hands folded across the tome.

Again Valjean’s bell tinkled, and now she rose, a smile on her face. Struck by shock, Javert watched as she ran forward and cast herself at Jean Valjean, who wrapped his arms around her.

“Father!” she called out, laughing, “Father, I did very well in Latin today! And Azélie says she saw the ghost again last night. He was walking into the old convent! Oh, do you think he used to be a priest who lived here, a long time ago?”

Even from his vantage point Javert could see Valjean start.

“There are no ghosts here,” Valjean finally said as Javert watched. “She had a nightmare. That is all.”

“How is uncle Fauvent? Have you been to the market yet today? Will you read us a new book this evening?” the girl asked, only to extricate herself from Valjean’s arms a moment later when a bell rang in the convent. “Oh, I must go, father. Are you sure it might not be a ghost?”

“Very certain,” Valjean said gravely.

Then the girl ran towards where the other pupils had disappeared a minute ago. A moment later, she had vanished from sight. Javert, still struck by shock, remained hidden behind the branches for several minutes, until finally he roused himself, remembering that Valjean had to be waiting for him.

How utterly strange this apparition had been. Was this truly the same starved, cowering girl that Valjean had insisted on dragging with them from Montfermeil?

Moreover, how was it possible that Javert’s senses had failed him at last? Had he not always prided himself on the sharp senses of the hound, which had sniffed out members of the criminal class at the first glance? Was he not intimately acquainted with that class; did he not come from it himself?

And yet, it had been impossible to identify Cosette in the circle of girls gathering around that bench. In the group of bourgeois pupils that were educated here, she should have stood out like a wolf among does—but Javert had not recognized her. She moved, spoke, ran with the same confidence as the other girls. Had he not seen her embrace Valjean and call him “father,” he would have thought it impossible that the well-groomed young girl should have been born to that woman Fantine.

“Have you seen her?” Valjean whispered, as soon as Javert, still shaken, had descended into the shadows of the ruin. “Is it not all like I said; would not the justice of the peace be satisfied with her education? You’ve done no harm, Javert: she prospers, she knows her Latin, she is happy here.”

“Happy,” Javert muttered, but there was no feeling in it. Even now, he could not understand what had happened.

Had his senses left him at last? Would he no longer be of use to society; could he no longer tell dog from wolf, elector from convict?

“I must go.” All of a sudden, Javert felt tired. “I can’t stay here. I never should have come here. Breaking into a convent, like a thief; and now _this_ , to crouch here on a roof in broad daylight—“

“No one saw,” Valjean said. A moment later, Valjean’s hand came to rest on Javert’s shoulder. “Wait here. Wait until the bell rings again. Then climb the wall. Remain in the shadows—but there won’t be anyone to see you. With the next bell, everyone will be at prayers.”

Again Javert laughed, his head aching. “Advice from a convict,” he muttered. “There, see, this is how far you have fallen…”

Then he straightened. When Valjean’s hand pulled back, Javert’s shot out, grasping hold of Valjean’s arm.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Valjean repeated, although his voice trembled.

Javert bared his teeth. “It is not particularly reassuring to hear these things out of your mouth. What do you know of right or wrong, Jean Valjean? I told you, I won’t be judged by you.”

Chastised, Valjean bent his head. A moment later, Javert had turned away, fury and desire raging within him even now.

“I won’t be back,” he said, his voice low. “I won’t return here.”

There was a long moment of silence. Javert stared up at the wall. Above them, the branches of the elder tree swayed in the wind.

Then, in the convent behind them, a bell resounded.

“Tomorrow morning, I’ll go out to the market,” Valjean said softly. “If you—I will be at the market.”

Javert clenched his jaw, giving no sign that he had heard Valjean’s words. Then he began to climb.


	53. Chapter 53

The market was as it had always been: a colorful maze of screaming birds, carts with crates of vegetables piled high, vendors advertising their wares and gamins racing through narrow alleys.

Jean Valjean finished his errands mechanically. He accepted the first novel the used book vendor by the southern wall pressed into his hand, the back of his neck tingling as though someone were watching him.

Slowly, Valjean turned, the book pressed to his chest. And there, in the shadows next to a stand offering bales of fabric, an unmistakable figure stood, watching him from beneath the rim of the hat that adorned the tall figure.

Javert.

They did not talk much. Embarrassed, his heart beating rapidly in his chest, Valjean climbed his cart. Silently, Javert joined him.

Valjean drove where Javert led him, following curt commands and nudges until they reached a building in a quiet street. Here, Javert had found lodgings. And here, for half an hour, Valjean found himself guiltily succumbing to Javert’s embrace once more.

When it was done, he rose and began to dress. He was flushed with embarrassment and half breathless with dread that he had misjudged Javert. At any moment, handcuffs might close around his wrists once more; he might find himself chained and jailed, never to feel Cosette’s arms around him again…

But Javert did not raise a hand against him as Valjean hurriedly dressed. Instead, he watched from dark eyes, uncharacteristically silent.

“On Thursday,” Valjean at last offered, for some reason desperate to break the silence, “I will have to visit the farrier.”

Javert inclined his head to show that he had understood. Valjean felt his face heat. There were no further words, but he knew that Javert was aware of what he was offering.

Was this how it would be between them once more?

The days in the Gorbeau house had not been so disagreeable. Valjean had spent his days with Cosette, free of chains although not quite free of fear. His nights, sometimes, had been spent in Javert’s company—and in Javert’s bed. That had not been disagreeable either. And the more time had passed, the less he had been afraid of the voices of strangers during the day.

There was no reason they should not have that again. No reason at all.

No reason, save for the fact that it was Javert Valjean was offering himself to, and that there, right over his heart, a pale brand marked him with a _J_.

Valjean’s pulse was still racing when he returned to the convent. He had acquired what tools were needed, as well as another book to read to Cosette and Fauchelevent. And yet, the quiet solemnity of the garden behind walls, which had once appeared to him as heaven on earth, was now tainted by his own guilt.

Had he not left these desires behind? Had he not lived eight long years in Montreuil-sur-Mer, chaste even in thoughts? During those years, he had needed nothing but the blue sky stretching above him as he walked through field and wood. Not once had he yearned for those embraces he had known in the bagne.

And now that he had freedom and happiness, that indescribable sweetness of Cosette by his side and the peace of the convent to soothe his heart, Valjean’s body, so long dormant, rose up in rebellion against him again and again.

Guiltily, Valjean eyed the ruins of the old convent in the distance. To think that it was Javert himself who had possessed the good sense to put an end to their meetings, here in this place of all places! Inwardly, Valjean trembled as he thought of the gaze of one who certainly was watching even now. What would the Bishop say, who had once raised him from wretchedness?

Perhaps, on Thursday, Javert would not come. Or perhaps they would talk, and seek the chaste companionship that even men like them might surely find at the heart of arrangements like these. Sure for one who had gone long years without such needs, it would prove no great hardship to return to such a state.

That was Jean Valjean’s new-found resolve when he set out with the horse on Thursday. The gelding, a strong-built Belgian of an amiable but lazy nature, had need of new irons. The farrier was not far, and so Valjean led the beast on a rope, content to slow his own walk to accommodate the horse’s lethargy.

When they made it to the farrier’s small stable, no one but the man’s apprentice was to be seen.

Javert had not come. Surely that was for the best, Valjean told himself as he abandoned the animal to the boy’s care.

“The master’s busy today. If you don’t mind, Father Fauvent, come back for it in the afternoon. He’s happy to help the convent, you know that. It’s only that just this morn he was called away…”

Valjean inclined his head in assent. “The mother superior is grateful for his assistance.”

The farrier, not a religious man himself but brother to a woman who ardently admired the obedience of Martin Verga and the strictures of the Bernardines-Benedictines, provided such services to the convent for free. Another day, Valjean might have returned to the convent to weed for a few hours, or else explored a market for books or a present for Cosette.

Perhaps today, he would walk through to the market once more. Javert had not come to meet him—but perhaps, Javert was waiting where he had found Valjean the last time.

Or perhaps, Javert had come to his senses. Perhaps there would be no further meetings.

Valjean could not say why, but the thought made his stomach drop. Was it the returning fear that any moment, someone might call out his name in the market, an iron hand grabbing him by the lapels?

Unsettled, Valjean turned, eager to leave those thoughts behind. That was when he saw him.

There, standing across the street, was the formidable figure of a tall man with remarkable whiskers and low brows that shaded his eyes. A shudder went through Valjean.

“You have come,” he said when he joined Javert.

“I have come,” Javert replied simply.

Valjean flushed to have Javert’s penetrating gaze on him once more. Even so, a strange relief filled him as he quietly followed Javert to his lodgings.

It was much like the last time. If Valjean felt shame or apprehension, these vanished as soon as the door closed behind them and he felt Javert’s body press him against the wall. There was relief in surrendering his mouth to Javert’s possessive kiss—and there was relief too in spreading himself out on the bed, the touch of Javert’s hot skin burning away all thought.

When it was done, Javert was the first to rouse. His eyes were unreadable as he sat up, leaning over Jean Valjean. One hand came to rest on the bed next to his shoulder. The other, hesitant, reached out to touch Valjean’s hair. It lingered there for long moments, during which Valjean could not make himself speak.

At last, slowly, it trailed down the side of Valjean’s face, thumb skimming past cheekbone and jaw to rest on his throat. There, Javert’s thumb slid sideways, following the shape of the collar of metal that had once rested there, and Valjean swallowed nervously, even though he did not stir.

Finally, Javert’s hand slid further downward. It brushed through the carpet of hair that grew on Valjean’s chest. There, Javert stopped, his fingers spreading.

Valjean could feel his heart hammering in his chest. His nipples were drawn up tight, and when Javert’s finger brushed against one, a soft sound escaped him.

“You like that too.” The expression on Javert’s face was thoughtful. He circled the nipple with his thumb. When he rubbed against it at last, Valjean could only barely keep from arching against him.

“You do,” Javert muttered distractedly. “You like being touched.”

Then, at last, his hand moved a fraction upward. Valjean swallowed when Javert’s fingers found the scar of the brand. Piercing eyes focused on Valjean, Javert traced the shape of the brand with a finger, the motion slow and deliberate.

“The last time I touched you here, you ran,” Javert said. “Yes, Valjean, I haven’t forgotten that.”

Valjean found himself flushing. The touch made him tremble, and he could not say why. Where before, warmth had spread through his body, so that he had arched into the maddening touches, now he held himself stiffly—allowing the touch to continue, but suffering it rather than abandoning himself to it.

Javert’s mouth twisted into an expression of grim satisfaction.

“Yes, you don’t like this at all.” Javert’s thumb pressed down lightly, drawing along the _J_ so that Valjean could feel the shape come alive. “But it’s still there. No matter how much you’d like to pretend it isn’t.”

Valjean swallowed convulsively, holding Javert’s gaze. “And you?” he returned tentatively. “Do you like to pretend it isn’t there?”

Javert’s touch fell away all of a sudden as he stared down at Valjean.

“Ah, but that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it?” Javert muttered after a moment. “No matter how much we’d like to pretend, there are some truths that cannot be ignored.”

Valjean’s heart was fluttering in his chest, thud after painful thud echoing through him. His nipple ached, still drawn up tightly, yearning for the touch that had teased it before.

“If it weren’t,” Valjean asked softly. “If that had never happened… Would you want my company? Would you trust me?”

“Would I want _this_?” Again Javert’s mouth twisted. “You understand nothing. We can’t be anything but what we are. That’s been true for me since childhood. Yet here you are, and I _know_ you, Jean Valjean. Your past and your scars and yes, even that brand all say one thing—but you, you say another thing. And most damning of all is that I’m inclined to believe you. You frustrate me like no other.”

Valjean did not dare to move as he sought for words. “Does it need to be frustrating? If we could just continue like we did before… Surely there’s no need to think about these things.”

Javert barked a rough laugh, although his thumb at last abandoned the brand to return to Valjean’s aching nipple, pinching it a little harder than before so that Valjean groaned.

“The last time I decided there was no need to think about these things that gave me a headache, you were gone in the morning. No, we cannot just turn the order of society upside down and then pretend we haven’t caused such upheaval.”

“What is there to think about? It can’t be undone.” Desperate, Valjean arched towards Javert, his nipple an aching pinprick of pulsing pain and desire.

“Ah,” Javert muttered fretfully. He bent low over Valjean to stare at him from dark eyes. “That there is the heart of the problem, you see. Because I look at you and find myself wishing it could be undone. Do you even know what that means for a man like me? No, Jean Valjean—you are content to lie there when it’s you who causes the world to unravel, you who causes such tremors as to tear the world apart, you—”

Nearly out of his mind with the terror of Javert’s words and the desperate need to cling to this comfort he had found, even with this man of all men, Valjean reached up. Wrapping his arms around Javert’s neck, that endless stream of words was at last ended by the press of his mouth to Javert’s.

Javert released a bitter laugh, but then he surrendered. A moment later, Valjean felt a hand in his hair while Javert’s hot tongue eagerly took possession of his mouth once more. Against his thigh, Javert thrust with renewed vigor, his nail dragging hard against Valjean’s nipple.

Overwhelmed and aching with arousal, Valjean found himself spilling himself against Javert’s stomach, and only moments later Javert followed.

This time, Javert did not even bother to rouse himself from Valjean’s body, once their breathing had calmed.

“I wonder,” Javert muttered lazily when some time had passed, his hand curving possessively around Valjean’s hip. “What do you prefer? To feel me inside you?”

Surprised, Valjean found himself blushing once more.

“You know it,” he said weakly.

Javert’s laughter was low and satisfied.

“Jean Valjean,” he murmured, his fingers stroking slowly along Valjean’s thigh. “Bagne flower.”

This time, for some strange reason, the words seem filled with warmth.


	54. Chapter 54

It should not have been so easy to continue like this. And yet, strangely enough, as the leaves continued to fall and at last, rain turned into the first snowfall of the year, Jean Valjean would find his way to Javert’s apartment with unfailing regularity.

Once a week, Javert would have Valjean in his bed, Valjean’s skin hot and damp with sweat against his own as he surrendered himself to the exploration and demands of Javert’s hands.

If it was madness, they were long past the point where it was possible to put an end to such things.

By the time Easter arrived, and with it a sudden, final snowfall, it seemed no longer quite so mad to have Jean Valjean, former convict, come up the stairs to his apartment, or to watch Valjean dress himself hesitantly in the light of Javert’s candle.

“There’s ice on the streets tonight,” Javert said, loathe to leave the warmth trapped beneath the blanket. He could not quite say why he had felt the need to point it out; Valjean himself had remarked on the rain an hour ago, before they had strained against each other while the sleet outside past Javert’s window.

For a moment, Javert entertained the idea of Valjean remaining for the night, sharing the warmth of his body. The vision was seductive: to fall asleep with Valjean pliant and warm beside him, to wake with his hands on that strong body, to touch or take his pleasure if he so pleased during the night—and to find Valjean as eager and willing as he had always been.

“They await me,” Valjean said after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ve never stayed away for more than a handful of hours before. Fauchelevent would be concerned, and—”

Javert made a dismissive gesture. “I know you can’t stay.”

After a moment, Valjean came closer. He had not pulled on his shirt yet; the wood in the stove had burned down while they had been distracted, and Javert saw him shiver.

“If I could, I…”

“There’s no need for lies,” Javert said curtly. Then, chagrined for some reason, he sat up, cursing softly at the cold. “No, I take it back. I have no doubt you would, Jean Valjean. You wouldn’t lie about such a thing. Not to me.”

The smile Valjean now offered him was tentative. “But you know why I can’t.”

“I know why you can’t,” Javert agreed. What he did not say was that they were both aware of the fact that there was still the matter which these days remained mostly unsaid between them: that it was Javert, in the eyes of the law, who held the sole power over where Valjean might go.

Valjean still looked hesitant. A moment later, his eyes still soft from the pleasure they had shared, he moved closer. He covered Javert’s hand with his own where it rested on the bed, then he hastily stepped back.

Javert studied him in silence. How strange it was to have become used to Valjean moving freely in his quarters, to know the weight and the warmth of his body in his bed…

“You didn’t run,” Javert finally said. “Half a year, and you didn’t run.”

Valjean flushed. “I told you I wouldn’t.”

The sky was still covered with clouds that threatened more snow. When Valjean turned at last to pull on his shirt, the scars on his back were barely visible in the soft afternoon light.

Even so, Javert knew they were there.

Despite the cold, he sat up. At the shiver that ran through him, Valjean moved unbidden to add another piece of wood to the fire.

“Thank you,” Javert said at last. He did not elaborate on whether it was for the wood, or an answer to their earlier conversation. Even so, Valjean stilled for a moment. Once more, Javert marveled at the mystery of that powerful body and the ease with which Valjean yielded to him.

Then, finally, Valjean took his leave, leaving Javert’s apartment silent and empty.

A little later, Javert rose with a soft curse. He washed, shivering at the coldness of the water—and then, despite the ice on the streets and the way the sun had already nearly sunk below the horizon, Javert went out.

For the past month, a cut-throat finding his victims near the Halles had taken up his time. The murderer had not yet been arrested; even so, today Javert’s steps took him away from the Halles. At Gisquet’s order, Javert took a seat in a wine-shop in the Rue de la Paix, and there he proceeded to quietly listen to conversation that gained in raucousness the later the hour became.

When he made his way back home an hour past midnight, Javert could not say whether he was disappointed or relieved that the blond student with his piercing eyes had not shown up. Today, much of the debate had centered on cotton workers; no one had brought up the subject of convict-slaves.

A relief, Javert told himself. Even so, he felt strangely troubled when he walked through dark alleys, his hands behind his back. No one who knew him would have recognized him at that moment, for the expression of such uncertainty was antithetical to the inspector’s whole being.

At last, the moon appeared from behind a cloud. At the same moment, Javert stopped as if struck by a blow.

There, on the wall before him, someone had stuck a pamphlet. The paper, formerly hidden in the shadows, had been illuminated by the sudden moonlight, so that it now shone with a white, damning light out of the surrounding darkness.

“The Misery of the Convict-Slave,” stark letters spelled out. Below could be found a condemnation of the state’s selling of galley-slaves as laborers. The illumination did not suffice to read the text, but Javert knew well what it said. Had not many similar pamphlets been found, stuck to walls or handed out at gatherings like today?

Mechanically, Javert reached out to rip it from the wall. The moon was still shining brightly, the light reflected by the snow and ice that covered the street.

And there, below the pamphlet, an image was revealed that dealt him another blow. It was a poster for the play “The Two Convicts,” which enjoyed much success at the Porte Saint-Martin. Javert could not look away from the image revealed by the white moonlight.

At last, he staggered backward, lowering the hand that still held the pamphlet. The moonlight dimmed as the wind pushed another cloud past the moon—but Javert was no longer staring at the poster.

In Javert’s mind, a new imagine had sprung up, which showed two different convicts joining hands—and bodies. One of them bore the familiar face of Jean Valjean. The other had no features: Javert had not seen the men Valjean had been chained to once, or if he did, he could not remember their faces.

A long minute passed that way. At last, the cold returned Javert to his senses. Still confused, he made his way out of the alley, continuing through ice-covered streets until he arrived home.

It meant nothing, he told himself as he smoothed the pamphlet on his desk, meticulously adding this detail to his report on the night’s gathering. Still, when he at last returned to bed once more, with the moon low and the sun nearly risen, his mind remained full of the unsettling vision of Jean Valjean in the arms of another.

Javert woke at noon. His mind was clear, the events of the past night nearly forgotten. He walked to the station-house in the crisp air of this final week of winter, spending an hour elaborating on his report on the suspicious activity in the wine-shop until at last it was sent to Gisquet. With that work done, Javert focused once more on the murders in the Halles.

With the past night firmly out of Javert’s mind, the night should have been forgotten, nothing more but another note on the desk of the prefect of police. And yet, whether by chance or caused by the long hours that finally led to the arrest of the assassin of the Halles on a sunny Wednesday morning, the pamphlet had remained on Javert’s small desk, along with other notes and papers that occupied his mind during the week.

Half covered by a list of informants pertaining to the recent murders, it still rested there on the Thursday when Jean Valjean arrived once more, bringing a gust of spring air with him when he entered, which disturbed the pile of Javert’s papers.

Neither of them paid his desk any attention. By now, Valjean’s visits had become a weekly event, transgression becoming habit until it seemed no longer quite so shocking to watch Jean Valjean draw off his shirt or feel the strong thighs parting easily at his touch.

“You,” Javert muttered against his skin as he drew fingers already slick with oil through coarse hair.

He lightly closed them around Valjean’s testicles, which earned him a groan, thighs spreading even further.

“I wonder, Jean Valjean,” he muttered, half bending over him as he released Valjean’s testes, two slick fingers sliding into Valjean instead. “Has it always been like this for you?”

At his touch, as expected, Valjean moaned almost desperately, eyes closing as the powerful body tensed and arched. Relentless, Javert kept up the pressure inside him while Valjean trembled, his prick straining untouched against his stomach.

“Always,” Valjean gasped.

Very slowly, Javert slid his fingers in and out. A long string of liquid leaked from the tip of Valjean’s prick. Then Javert twisted his fingers, keeping up the pressure, and Valjean moaned again, his body damp with sweat.

“After Toulon, when you were alone… have you touched yourself like this?”

Now Valjean’s eyes flew open, the flush on his cheeks deepening. “Javert,” he pleaded, his hands curving around Javert’s shoulders to draw him down upon him.

Javert resisted, instead keeping up the pressure within until Valjean was shifting ceaselessly beneath him, his prick swollen and red.

“You’ve tried it then. Well?”

“It’s not as good,” Valjean said at last, breathless as his body strained towards Javert. “It’s… please. It’s too much.”

“Too much, now? Or too much when you do it?”

“Both,” Valjean gasped desperately, his cheeks very red.

Javert chuckled, low and amused. The image of Jean Valjean all alone, pleasuring himself, caused new heat to rise up within him. A moment later, he had rolled on top of Valjean—and then he was inside him, thighs wrapping around his hips as he watched Valjean shudder and moan every time he shifted within him.

It was as satisfying as it had always been. And the aftermath, when Valjean would rest quiet and warm by his side, was satisfying as well.

Jean Valjean sated and pliant was a thing to behold. Javert drew a possessive hand down his chest, savoring the softness of hair and the hardness of muscle, as well as the knowledge that it would take only the lightest of pressure to have Valjean willingly roll onto his back for him once more.

“How is it for you?” Valjean finally asked him, sounding hesitant. “Is it… do you like it?”

Javert frowned, smoothing his thumb along the ridge of a muscle. “Surely you know I do.”

Valjean was silent for a moment. Then, tentative, his own hand trailed up Javert’s arm. “I wonder. Am I selfish?”

“You mean, are you—” Javert choked back a guffaw when he realized what Valjean was asking. He half rose on one arm to lean over him, watching, pleased, how Valjean’s face flushed at his scrutiny.

“No. I’m well pleased with how things are. You’re not selfish. Rather I enjoy it too much,” Javert muttered, “but then, surely it’s too late for regrets.”

“There’s nothing sordid about you making use of me.”

Valjean did not say any more, but he did not have to. Javert knew what he was leaving unsaid.

Once more Javert drew a finger along the brand, feeling Valjean stiffen in his arms, the eyes that had gazed up at him with such warm surrender earlier now all of a sudden wary.

“Oh, but there is.” Javert knew it only too well, and he had never been in the habit of lying to himself. “Because with or without the brand, I’d be enjoying this. I’d still want this. So what does that make me? Craving this _comfort_ …”

“It’s comfort to me. Still,” Valjean said at last.

His hand was resting on Javert’s arm. His head was resting on Javert’s pillow. Tonight, Javert’s sheets would smell of Valjean’s sweat. Even now, the thought caused a frisson of satisfaction to run through him.

“Would it have been comfort, if you’d gone back? In Toulon, would you’ve truly thought of my embrace to comfort yourself?”

“I would have.” Valjean spoke softly, but the words were firm. “I wanted it. You know I did. Even though it was you, I wanted that memory to keep. One memory, one moment where it was my choice. You don’t know how it is. One comes to crave freedom in many ways. I could have carried that memory with me. It isn’t something they can take from you, though they put you in chains and beat you.”

Javert thought of the money Valjean had left him that night. In the eyes of the law, it made no difference. It was impossible for Valjean to buy his own freedom. And yet, Javert had not been able to return the money, either to Valjean or the state.

“It changes nothing about what you are,” Javert said at last. “It’s important not to forget that. Because you make me want to forget, Jean Valjean. I look at you and I think…”

Javert fell silent. If it were possible to set Valjean free, to keep him here in his bed of his own will… Would he dare to chance such a thing?

At last, he shook his head. His limbs were pleasantly heavy. His skin still remembered the way Valjean had gasped against him, desperate for the press of Javert’s fingers. What a mystery this man was, who had rebelled against him from the start in every possible way, and who would yet yield with such eagerness.

“I’m a gardener,” Valjean said gently. “Not a dangerous man. You said that. Remember?” Then Valjean stretched beneath his fingertips. “I have to leave.” It sounded almost apologetic.

“And you’ll be back.”

“I’ll be back,” Valjean agreed.

When he rose, Javert watched once more the play of muscles as Valjean’s strong body moved through his apartment, dressing with unconscious grace. The scarred skin shone in the light of the afternoon sun. Javert’s gaze lingered with covetous enjoyment on the soft genitals, then watched, deliberate, how the _J_ on Valjean’s chest was at last covered by a shirt.

Valjean flushed when he became aware of his gaze, but did not avert his eyes. Suddenly it was difficult to imagine Valjean as he had been then, in the bagne, even though at the same time, Javert was now intimately aware of the way Valjean looked when he surrendered to his touch.

Finally, Jean Valjean was dressed once more, looking as respectable as a man could, who, minutes ago, had panted against Javert’s skin. As Valjean turned to leave, he passed by Javert’s desk, where letters and notes were still spread out. At that exact moment, by chance a breeze sprang up outside. A gust of air came in through the window, which stood ajar. It disturbed Javert’s papers, drawing Valjean’s attention—and a heartbeat later, Valjean stood frozen, reaching out for something on Javert’s desk.

When he turned back towards Javert at last, he held the pamphlet in his hand.


	55. Chapter 55

Valjean could not say what had caught his eye. He was aware of these pamphlets that protested a hundred different things. Whenever he spied one that referenced the fate of convicts, his shoulders hunched and he instinctively drew his cap into his face, hurrying past such writings as though one look at him would be enough to tell any passersby that there, right before them, such a man was walking.

Valjean cherished the serenity of the convent of Petit-Picpus. Neither politics nor the world at large intruded there; it was all too easy to forget who he was, and what he had been. In Javert’s home, it was impossible to forget those things—but Javert’s embrace offered a different sort of forgetfulness. 

To have Javert touch the scar on his chest was one thing. It was a private thing between them. Perhaps it had always been, right from the beginning.

But now, with the pamphlet in his hand, reality had intruded into the bedchamber that Valjean had come to know so intimately well. As though someone had suddenly forced open the shutters, the outside world had rudely penetrated whatever peace he had thought to have found. It seemed to Valjean that with this piece of writing in his hand, the mattress where he had given himself up to Javert’s touch had been replaced by the unyielding planks, Javert’s caressing touches had turned to chains that grasped his wrists, and the letter on his chest, which had been almost forgotten, now burned with the remembered pain of that moment when he had been branded like an animal, his shame there on his chest for everyone to see.

Jean Valjean stood frozen. After a long moment, he put the sheet of paper back down. Puzzled, he stared at his hand. It was shaking.

Abruptly, heat returned to his limbs. He flushed, unable to look at Javert. It should not have surprised him: had Javert not told him that they could not forget who they were? Yet even so, it was easy to yield to Javert and the heat of his touch, remembering only the pleasure and comfort that similar touches had brought long ago. It was harder to think of Javert making use of him while remembering just what Jean Valjean was: his possession. Someone who was less than a man—someone who, in any case, did not have the rights of one, and would never have them again.

Valjean swallowed thickly, swaying beneath the sudden, heavy weight of shame that threatened to crush him. He should not have taken hold of the pamphlet. No matter what Javert believed, it was better to let some things rest. The balance they had found was precarious; was it not better to preserve what peace they had found?

And yet, as soon as Valjean turned, Javert hastily stumbled to his feet, disregardful of the fact that he was still naked. Just as naked, he came towards Valjean, who blushed to found himself so confronted. Javert was a sight: agitated, his face pale, his brows drawn, he looked completely unlike himself. His cheeks were red from the cold, his genitals soft, and Valjean had to force himself not to stare at where they dangled between his legs. Had he ever seen Javert like this before?

“Valjean,” Javert said at the same moment as he reached out, his hand grabbing hold—not of the pamphlet, but of Valjean’s hand. “Wait. Don’t leave. Let me explain.”

Helplessly, Valjean stared at where Javert’s hand clenched around his. “There’s nothing you have to explain, Javert.”

“No. No, I suppose there isn’t,” Javert said.

When Valjean looked up after a moment, he was shocked by Javert’s nakedness once more. It was still daylight, and to see Javert so indecent was an unsettling experience.

“I was… observing and reporting on dangerous activities.” Javert lowered his head; then his brows drew together, as though he had only just noticed that he was still holding Valjean’s wrist. When he released Valjean, his shoulders shifted with discomfort; so exposed, standing before Valjean, he seemed almost helpless. Still, he did not budge.

"We need not talk about this," Valjean said after a long moment.

"But we do." Javert was staring at him with piercing eyes. "We do. Otherwise, will you run again?"

"I should leave," Valjean murmured. Javert's hand was still wrapped around his own. It should have frightened him. It should have reminded him of the chains Javert had once put on him. But the truth was that these days, nothing about Javert frightened him anymore.

Perhaps it was foolish to surrender to this thing so easily. Was not Javert the one who had added new scars to those on his back?

And yet. The Javert who had come to him in the convent in the night and stared at him with such overwhelmed hunger was not someone who would hurt him again.

Valjean knew it was true. Or perhaps he simply had to believe it.

"No. No, you should stay and listen to me." Javert at last released his hand, only to thrust his fingers into his hair with a hoarse, despairing laugh. A moment later, he had turned back to the bed, hastily grabbing hold of his shirt and pulling it on.

In equal parts embarrassed and fascinated, Valjean stared at the mess they had left on the sheets. Javert smelled of their copulation. There, on his thigh, was a large streak of his dried release.

Flushed, Valjean at last averted his eyes. He had no reason to trust Javert. And yet, had Javert not shown himself worthy of his trust?

In the bagne, Valjean had lain with men who had been chained for all sorts of offenses. Some might have stolen bread to save a starving child, as he had. Others might have murdered a man. He had never asked. It had not mattered. What had come before was a distant thing; like the dead no longer remember the days of the living, so the bagnard no longer thinks of life before that misery that seemed construed solely to crush all goodness in a man.

So what, then, made this different? The past could not be changed. Was it not easier to cling to what they had, and be grateful that it was good?

"Here, let me..." Carefully, Javert took the pamphlet from him. He put it back down on his desk. "Valjean. I wonder... what are you thinking?"

At last, Valjean bestirred himself. "Of nothing," he said. Then, hesitantly, he added, "the bagne. It's of no concern. As you said, we are what we are."

Javert's lips twisted into a grimace that was not quite a smile. "The bagne. Yes, that's a start. Think also of the man who put that brand on you."

Briefly, Valjean closed his eyes. "I won't forget it, ever. I don't think I can. I don't understand why you think I will."

"It's important not to forget," Javert said after a pause. "Because in here, and in that convent of yours, you’re a simple gardener, a good man. But out there on the streets, you're a convict-slave. Pretending doesn't change that. Oh yes, Valjean, that's what we do. You’ve caused a lot of trouble for me in the past years. But when all is said and done, I no longer believe that you should be chained and sold."

Javert reached out to press his hand flat against Valjean's heart, where the brand was burned into his skin. Valjean shuddered.

"But I can't undo it. And you know that no matter what I think, the state's view of such things is a different matter. To think that at last, there is a sudden cleft that has opened between me and the law, a chasm filled with the fire of doubt and uncertainty... Yes, that is what you’ve done to me, Jean Valjean. You want to forget that what the law says of you, and I tell you: you cannot. Because what I think does not matter if you are faced with the hands and eyes of the law. You know that?"

Again Valjean shuddered. "I know it, monsieur," he said, the address coming automatically as he imagined those agents of the law coming to find him in the convent, putting chains on him in the full view of Cosette.

"Now," Javert said, his face twisting again as though it took effort to speak the words, "we need not speak of it again if you don't want to, and you do not have to return to my bed if you don’t want that, either. But you will listen now. As long as you are here, in my rooms, you are Jean Valjean—just that, no more. A mere gardener. But there might come a day when someone recognizes you in the street. You must be careful, do you hear me? Do you know how many men I’ve seen blackmailed? Or worse?"

"What you say is that we may pretend," Valjean said softly, his heart still racing against Javert's hand, "but that you can’t protect me. That is well, I never asked for that. Only... only for a kind touch. A man comes to crave such things, after a life of..."

"You foolish man," Javert muttered, and a heartbeat later, Valjean found himself pulled close by fists that clenched in his shirt and hair, Javert's mouth hot and hungry and desperate.

When they parted, Valjean was out of breath, his lips swollen.

“Yes, a man craves things,” Javert muttered, "you need not tell me that. Do you think I haven't come to know what it is to desire? Now let us stop pretending. Let's be honest, you and I, bagnard and guard, false mayor and police spy. I want this. You, here, in my bed. And I want you here the way you've always come. Because you want my touch. Because it's a comfort. And I will promise you that I know you, Jean Valjean, and that I know you are a good man, most of the time. But you need to know that when you go out through this door, you are a man condemned by the state, and that there is nothing you and I can do about that. Do you understand?"

"You are... worried about me?" Valjean had trouble making sense of Javert. He was still dizzy from the kiss, flushed with heat from the touch. Certainly it was a weakness to need so much—but even now the memory of a warm, breathing body pressed close against his own filled him with contentment.

A sudden, hoarse laugh escaped Javert. His hands were still clenched around Valjean's shirt. "Every day I worry! What do you think? That I’m so callous that I am content to take my pleasure of you, only to forget you as soon as you walk out that door? I’m not in the habit of lying, and it's past time we stopped this pretense."

Suddenly feeling bashful, Valjean could only incline his head.

How could it be that it was Javert—Javert, who owned him, who had put his mark on him—who had earned such a strange devotion from him, when other men had been so quickly forgotten? How could he stand here, grateful for Javert's warmth, when he had not even thought of Boucard's letter in nearly two decades?

"I did not think... That is, I did not dare to hope for affection," Valjean finally said, his heart beating painfully in his chest. "How could it be?"

It could not be, he told himself again—but his treacherous body remembered too well the warmth of Javert's embrace, and the heat of Javert's breath against his skin. Had there not been affection when Javert had whispered _bagne flower_ , dryly amused and aroused? Affection, yes—and none of the old derision.

But how could Valjean feel affection in turn, when Javert had never been one of those men sleeping by his side on hard planks?

"I don't know," Javert muttered at last. There was a tension in him now, but he still had not released Valjean. "You have done this to me, Jean Valjean. You have woken this in me. All those months—do you truly think I could have done such a thing, let you go free, hoping every week that you would return, if I hadn't come to crave more than just your body's surrender? You. You are the devil himself, Jean Valjean, I'll say it again. Look what you've done to me."

Valjean could not look away from Javert. Javert was disheveled, the impressive whiskers ruffled. His eyes were feverish, his heavy brows drawn together. The imposingly tall body was clad in only a white shirt, and where at any other time Javert could intimidate with a glance, right now there was something nearly pathetic to the countenance of the man, who once upon a time had never entered Madeleine's presence but with his entire appearance in stark order.

Was it true? Had Valjean done this to him?

He should feel revulsion at Javert's touch—a man who had chained him, rather than been chained by his side. Yet even now his body was sated and warm with the memory of Javert's embrace.

Uncertain, Valjean reached out. He hesitated a moment, but then he pressed his hand to Javert's chest, feeling Javert's heart beat against his own palm.

"It wasn't me who did this to you," he said, remembering the touch of another who had once reached out to him. "You once told me that it is easy to be kind, but that isn't true. Kindness hurts. It cuts sharp like steel straight to your heart, and all you can do is weep when you see your own wretchedness in it."

Javert was breathing heavily. He did not speak, but after a moment, his own hand came up, covering Valjean's. For a long moment, they stood like this, looking at each other while Javert's chest rose and fell.

Then, at last, with a final, caressing brush of his fingers against the back of Valjean's hand, Javert's hand dropped away, and he drew himself up straight, as imposing as before.

“Valjean. Won’t you say _tu_ when you are here with me? That would please me."

Bashful, Valjean inclined his head once more. At last, his hand fell away. They regarded each other once more.

"I will see you next week," Valjean said, feeling himself flush at the sudden intimacy of addressing Javert so familiarly. It felt strange. After so long, it did not feel quite right. Still… it did not feel wrong, either.


	56. Chapter 56

In the summer of the year 1829, Fauchelevent died. The news did not come as a surprise; the man was old, after all. And for all that Javert had appreciated Fauchelevent’s animosity towards Madeleine in Montreuil, Javert had opted to stay away from the convent and the life Valjean had found there.

“He did not wake.” Valjean reported the news calmly, his face pale. “It happened in his sleep. Cosette is distraught, of course; she has known him for almost as long as she has known me. She does not remember any life outside of the convent—save in nightmares, perhaps.”

Javert made a sound of agreement. “Well, that problem is solved soon enough. How old is she now? Will she not be finished with her schooling soon and wear a novice’s habit? And then, at last, this farce will be over, my duty to the justice of the peace fulfilled, and her life turned to the good by honesty and the authority of the church—just as I once chose to leave my beginnings behind.”

Valjean was still looking at him, his face unmoved. At last, he said, “Cosette wants to leave the convent. And I agree. She has barely started to live. How can I deny her all the happiness and fulfillment the world outside the convent has to offer her?”

“What!” Javert exclaimed. “To leave the convent? And you? What about you? Valjean, if this is another of your mad ideas…”

“It is madness to keep her locked up behind walls, like a flower whose growth is stunted by cold stone.” Valjean paused for a moment. Then, heavily, he said, “I know what it is like to live behind walls. I would not deny her happiness, even at the cost of my own life.”

“For God’s sake!” Javert clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. “And how is that supposed to happen? Who will pay for that life of happiness? My duties don’t extend that far. She was to learn hard, honest work, and now that she is finished with her schooling, do not believe even for one moment that we will see any money out of that justice of the peace for your plan.”

“I have saved a little, from my work in the convent,” Valjean said quietly. “So did Fauchelevent. And I will take new work, as a gardener, perhaps, or whatever else I can find. It does not matter. It will be enough for a modest, quiet life.”

“Ha! That is very good,” Javert said, thrusting his hand into his whiskers in agitation. “So you have it all worked out? A life of happiness, yes? Freedom, eh? Very good. That is very good, Jean Valjean.”

“You are upset.” Valjean gave him a frown. “I do not understand. Javert, why—”

“Yes,” Javert muttered. “You do not understand. That is exactly why I’m upset.”

He grimaced as Valjean continued to watch him. At last, Javert ground his teeth. “Even if I were happy to see you live here in Paris, pretending to be a citizen like any other—I have a duty, Jean Valjean, a duty towards the state concerning her. To have her in the hand of ecclesiastical authority, that is one thing. That was done well by you; I cannot argue with that, even though you ran from me. But now—what? What will she do?”

Valjean remained silent. Javert felt something twist in his stomach at the thought that Valjean was once more threatening to move out of his reach. To tell himself that he was happy with having Valjean on his own terms, giving himself freely, was one thing when he knew Valjean safely inside the convent. But Jean Valjean at large in the city, working eating, sleeping, conversing with portress and neighbors while pretending to be a free man and not a slave of the state… could Javert simply stand by and watch such a thing?

And then, of course, what if Valjean should choose to vanish again? Or worse—find someone other than Javert to warm him at night, someone else to take what Javert had come to crave with such desperate need?

“There is a priest whom the Mother Prioress knows,” Valjean offered at last. “At his church, there is a need for someone who will teach the children to read and write. It is a suitable enough occupation for Cosette.”

Javert exhaled again. “Charity, Valjean. That is your charity again. The priest does not pay—”

“But Cosette will be needed,” Valjean said quietly. “That is enough. I will provide for her.” He hesitated for a moment. “If you allow it.”

So confronted, Javert found himself speechless. He could not articulate why he was so unsettled. Valjean was not wrong: if the girl was provided for, the justice of the peace in Montfermeil would not care whether Cosette sewed shirts for twelve sous a day or taught young children as an act of charity. Still, the order of the world that had so laborious been turned upright during the past years now seemed once more in danger of collapsing before his eyes. Instead of the strict regime of the convent, the girl would have a life of leisure—and at Valjean’s expense as well.

“You know very well I couldn’t say no, at this point,” Javert muttered. He took a step forward.

Valjean watched him from calm eyes, seemingly unperturbed. Only when Javert pressed a hand against his chest did his breathing speed up.

Fierce satisfaction shot through Javert. Yes, that was still as it had always been. No matter what plans for his freedom Valjean had, even now his heart was pounding rapidly against Javert’s hand. His eyes had widened. But still he stood relaxed—content to let Javert do as he pleased.

The thought sent a surge of lust through Javert.

Slowly, he rubbed his thumb against a nipple, taking note of the way Valjean’s lips parted. When he pressed his nail to the hardened nub, a soft gasp escaped Valjean. His chest was heaving. There was sweat gleaming on his brow. But still he did not move away.

“You are upset because you think I might no longer be yours,” Valjean said at last.

Javert’s jaw clenched. “Well?”

Valjean met his eyes. “I’ll still belong to you.”

A shudder ran through Javert when he realized that for some reason, Valjean had called him _vous_.

Again Javert ground his teeth, his thumb still tormenting the erect nipple hidden beneath Valjean’s shirt. “Because that’s what the law says. Because—”

“No,” Valjean said, his voice rough. His eyes were dark and tempting, and for a moment, Javert wondered what it would have been like to go to sleep in chains with Valjean in his arms, and to wake on the same plank pressed against him. Would Valjean have been his in the bagne as well? Or would not those other men have staked their claim, too?

“No. I’ll be yours because I like it when you touch me. Because I want it.”

A groan escaped Javert. He was achingly aroused, something inside him coiled up tight and sharp as his prick throbbed in his trousers.

“Why?” he asked hoarsely. “Didn’t I tell you to say _tu_?”

For a moment, Valjean faltered, uncertainty in his eyes, although he did not move away to escape Javert’s tormenting fingers.

“Do you not like it?” he asked softly. “I thought—you might.”

His cheeks had flushed. It kindled some strange viciousness in Javert, a desire to bite, to claim, to mark Jean Valjean as his all over. Instead, Javert raised his hand to pluck at the other nipple as well until Valjean swallowed and tensed, holding himself perfectly still.

“I do,” Javert finally admitted. “Were you that respectful in the bagne, I wonder? If I’d been there with you... would you have been mine?”

Valjean shuddered again. Against his thigh, Javert could feel that Valjean had hardened as well. Still Javert ignored his arousal, focusing only on the small, hard nipples, pinching until another breathless groan escaped Valjean.

“You know I would have, if that’s what you had wanted.” Valjean’s chest was still rising and falling rapidly. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“You don’t know what I want,” Javert snapped.

“But I do. Is that why you are upset? You want this too,” Valjean said, panting through Javert’s torment. “You want me to be yours, only yours—and I tell you that I am, and that I would be.”

Javert groaned, at last releasing Valjean’s nipples to bury his hands in his hair instead. Roughly, he pull him close, kissing Valjean until he was dizzy with lack of air.

“Where will you live?” Javert demanded when he drew back. For a moment, he remembered those days when Valjean had shared his bed, or had slept by his stove. The old image brought a surge of arousal with it as well, and a sharp stab of guilt.

No, they would not have that again. They could not. Still, the thought of Valjean falling asleep and waking up by his side, in his bed, was seductive. To think of coming home late after a dangerous assignment and finding Valjean asleep in his bed, warm and willing even when woken...

Again Javert groaned, nearly blind with lust. He earned a good salary now as an inspector in Paris. More than he had ever had before; enough that the days of utmost frugality were over at last. It was enough to rent a larger apartment—something simple and clean, with another room or two.

And yet—there was the matter of the girl. And as much as Javert liked to forget about her, Jean Valjean would not.

“I might rent an apartment nearby. Perhaps even in this street,” Valjean said, still calm although his hair was disheveled.

Slowly, Javert reached out, combing back the disturbed strands with his fingers. Valjean gave him a small smile in return.

“Would that please you?”

Valjean was using the familiar address once more, and Javert could not say whether he was pleased or disappointed. His hand lingered, the pad of his thumb drawing down along Valjean’s cheek to his jawline.

“It would please me,” he finally allowed. It would not please him as much as having Jean Valjean back in his bed, day and night—but for propriety’s sake, such an arrangement would do.

It was not until long after Jean Valjean had left that Javert realized that there was no impropriety at all in having his convict-slave share his quarters and his bed. No portress could be scandalized by such a thing; in the eyes of the law, Jean Valjean was still his legal property, to do with as he pleased.

They could easily have that life: he could have Valjean in his bed at night, and during the day, Valjean could continue to do as he pleased, pretending that any work he took was on Javert’s orders.

Yet still, there was the girl. Had Valjean told her about the life they had escaped from? Javert had not asked about her, not since that day he had come to see her in the convent—but for some reason, he doubted that she knew just who Jean Valjean was.

Valjean enjoyed it too much to play father to the girl.

The thought was still unsettling, but after a moment, Javert resolutely brushed it away. What did the girl matter? Javert still had Valjean—in the way that mattered the most. His presence still made Valjean’s heart speed up. His touch made Valjean’s chest rise and fall, his eyes darken. And most importantly, Valjean still submitted to his touch without protest—with eagerness, even.

The thought of the strong body willingly surrendering to him made something in Javert tighten.

Valjean was still his. Valjean was his, in all the ways that mattered most.

And yet—would he now lie to the girl because that was Valjean’s wish?

Unsettled, Javert walked towards his window, staring outside. Surely it had not come that far that he, Javert, would consider such dishonesty?

Javert was prepared to let Valjean do as he pleased. In a way, Javert had that right, for Valjean was his: Javert had paid the state’s price for that right. If it amused him to let Valjean live the life of a free man, then who could deny him that right?

Still. Surely it was one step too far to lie to the girl about who Valjean was. Was she not Javert’s charge? Should she not learn honesty? Was it not Javert’s duty to see that she would learn that a life could not be built on lies and crime?

Javert’s hand had found its way into his whiskers. Lost in thought, he tugged on them as he frowned at the street below.

What a conundrum this was. Whenever it seemed as if he had found a way to live with the fierce tremors within his breast that Jean Valjean caused, fate caused further upheaval. Where would it stop? Would all of Javert’s resolve be eroded away, little by little? Would Javert in the end be revealed to be no better than that criminal class he had come from?

The thought of his father, the galley-slave, had never caused anything but hot shame and utter derision in him—but now, it also brought with it a sudden image of Jean Valjean, chained and alone.

“Would you have been mine, I wonder,” Javert muttered, still frowning at the window. “Would you have been mine…?”


	57. Chapter 57

"There. Is it what you hoped for? It is not very large," Valjean said apologetically.

"Oh, father. It’s beautiful. Look, from my window I can see the street! All these people going back and forth," Cosette said, her eyes alive with delight as she pressed her face against the window. "To think that one can gaze as much as one desires, and never has to fear that one might be caught—"

"Not only gaze," Valjean said seriously, a smile tugging on his lips. He took hold of her hand. "Come. There is a garden nearby. Would you like to sit beneath the trees and watch the people passing us?"

It took Cosette only a few minutes to dress herself.

"Oh father, how grand this world is," Cosette sighed, her eyes gleaming as she studied the streets and people surrounding them all the way to the park. "I cannot even remember what it was like before we came to the convent. I remember a tiny room, a table—and you, father. You were teaching me to read. How strange and frightening these streets were when I was a child. And now they seem to be filled with nothing but wonders and delights. Do you know how much I looked forward to the stories you'd bring from the market every week? At times, it seemed to me you were a brave explorer, sailing off to some undiscovered country! But it is not so frightening now that I am here in it, and you are by my side."

Wordlessly, Valjean pressed her hand as he sat down on a bench. As much as he missed the security of the high walls behind which he had vanished, Cosette's delight in the bustle of the streets of Paris warmed his heart.

How could he have let Cosette spend her life behind those walls without ever knowing what life was like? It had been the right choice, for all that he had been afraid of what life outside of the convent would bring.

And then, had he and Javert not arrived at a truce? That matter, too, was difficult, and he flushed as he thought of Javert's touches. It was another thing Cosette could not know of—but then, for all that Javert was so dedicated to honesty, even he would agree that such unsavory truths had to be kept from those innocent of life in the bagne.

The apartment he had found was situated in the same building where Javert lodged. By chance, a family that lived on the same floor had moved out, the father losing his work and the family traveling to Caen, where the mother's brother had a business in need of more hands.

The coincidence had seemed nearly too good to be true. Valjean knew that it would please Javert to have him close—and it would please Valjean, too, as shameful as it was to still desire this closeness when for years, all need within him had been dormant.

And yet, Valjean could not see how it might harm anyone. In the eyes of the law, they did no wrong—he was Javert's, and as such, if it was Javert's will to have him settled in the apartment next to his own, so be it.

In the evening, there came a knock on the door.

“Forever,” Cosette said hastily, the habits of the convent not yet worn off.

As she hurried to the door, Valjean’s heart gave another painful jolt. He had not asked Javert to keep his secret—yet had not Javert promised he would, that day two years ago, when they had first met in the convent?

Surely Javert too had to see that Cosette was flourishing, that she had everything she needed, that to live here, with Cosette, was Heaven itself, and that if Javert would just keep this fragile equilibrium, all of them could be happy. The pain of the past need never be touched so that it might not cause present wounds.

“Oh,” Cosette gasped and took a step backward, her hand rising to cover her mouth. Wide-eyed, she stared at the door, where now the familiar figure of Javert appeared.

A moment later, still pale, Cosette curtsied. “Forgive me, monsieur, but I felt… I felt as if I knew you. A figure out of a dream, long ago…”

“A nightmare,” Javert said dryly. “I have no doubt about that.”

“Javert. Come in,” Valjean said, giving Cosette a worried look.

He had always known that such a confrontation would have to come—but did it truly have to happen so soon?

“You know each other?” Cosette asked after a moment. She was still pale, and stared at the inspector with a quiet intensity.

Did she remember those days when they had been forced to flee from Montfermeil? She had never made mention of it, and indeed Valjean had come to believe that she had forgotten everything that had happened before they settled in Petit-Picpus.

“He is an old friend.” Valjean flushed a little when Javert’s gaze came to rest heavily on him. “Inspector Javert. My daughter, Cosette.”

“I did not know you had any friends here, father.” Delighted, Cosette clapped her hands. “May I offer you some coffee, Inspector?”

“No, I…” Javert’s voice faltered as he stared at Cosette.

What did he see? Two years had passed since Javert had stolen into the convent to look at the girl who was nominally his charge. Cosette had grown in the meantime. She was no longer a child. Certainly even Javert would see now that Valjean’s decision had been right. Cosette did not belong locked up behind convent walls.

And certainly Javert would now see as well that Cosette was leading a good life, that despite all of Javert’s talk of honesty, she had never been anything but honest. It had been despair and misery that had cast their shadows over her; once freed from the crushing darkness of the Thénardier’s grasp, she had grown straight towards the light, as any plant would: weed and flower alike.

“You must stay and talk, Inspector,” Cosette said in delight. “We never have visitors, do you know that? In the convent, of course, it was not possible, but there I had friends and father had uncle Fauvent. But since we left the convent, why, I think father talked to no one but me. And there is so much to see! Is this city not glorious? I could watch the street from my window for hours—and now, we have a visitor too! Such wonders one finds beyond the convent walls!”

Warily, Valjean watched as Javert took a seat. He did not seem angry—surely that was a good sign. And an hour spent in Cosette’s company would surely teach Javert all that there was to know about Cosette: namely that she was good, filled with nothing but light and love. She was the sunshine that warmed Valjean’s old heart and the balm that soothed the aches of his weary soul.

Without Cosette’s love, there was neither love nor light in the world—surely Javert would not take that away from him. Javert, who had once faced Fantine with nothing but derision in his eyes, must have changed as well. The Javert who had been unable to shoot Jean Valjean and who had let him go again and again was not the same man who had taken delight in tormenting Fantine.

The thought brought a sudden stab of worry. Was it right of Valjean to face Cosette with this man?

And yet, there were other things at work here than just Valjean’s weakness: that old, desperate craving in his heart for hands that touched with kindness.

Javert, too, was still in possession of him. Furthermore, Javert was Cosette’s legal guardian. In that, Valjean had no choice. Surely, were Fantine to watch this scene right now, she would understand that, and would not hold it against Valjean—surely the one thing that mattered the most was Cosette’s happiness, and just how it was brought about could be disregarded by all celestial authority.

Several minutes later, Valjean found himself seated at a table together with Javert and Cosette. Mechanically, Valjean sipped his coffee without tasting it.

Again there was a knock on the door, and once more, Cosette rose with a hasty “Forever,” before she caught herself and clasped her hand over her mouth with a soft laugh. “It will take time to get used to this freedom!”

Then she opened the door, accepting a bundle of linen from the portress who had taken their washing earlier.

“Why do you say that?” Javert demanded with a frown—perhaps as much to break the silence, which had lingered somewhat uncomfortably between them while Cosette had happily entertained them with her observations about the bustle of Parisian streets and markets.

“Oh,” Cosette said smiling as she put the linen away, “it is nothing—just a habit from the convent. You see, when one knocks on a door—a Benedictine-Bernardine, that is—one says _Blessed and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar._ The sister within answers _Forever._ It’s not demanded of the pupils, of course, but after so many years, it becomes as natural as breathing. And in truth, sometimes I think it pleased the nuns that we developed that habit, too.”

Javert observed her, his brows still drawn together. Valjean followed his gaze, trying to imagine what it was Javert saw.

Cosette was wearing her gown of black merino. She was very thin, as she had always been, but her cheeks were flushed with animation and her eyes alight with excitement. She truly had been too sheltered in the convent if a taciturn visitor like Javert could bring such delight. Still, the thought of Cosette in society made Valjean uneasy.

How long could their secret be kept? How easily someone might recognize him in the street. And then, what if Javert were to be displeased and confront Cosette with her own past…

“The time in the convent was not to your liking then?” Javert now said.

“Oh, not at all,” Cosette replied brightly as she took her seat once more. “It was all the life I knew, and I had many friends—all the wood-lice, for one thing, and even a spider or two. We would all play in the garden by the fruit trees. And I will miss Mother Sainte-Mechthilde. She was very strict, and very frail, and her skin was as pale as marble. We all loved her very much.”

“You know Latin then?” Javert demanded. “You finished your schooling in the convent?”

“Just this past month, monsieur. Our curriculum is as rigid as the schools of the Legion of Honor. The convent school is very proud of its standards. We have learned our Latin and French, our history and arithmetics, and of course housekeeping.”

Javert made an unintelligible sound. “Very well,” he then said. For a moment, it looked as though he would inquire about her friends, the spiders and woodlice, but was too rattled by what answer he might be given.

For the sake of Javert’s peace of mind, Valjean interjected, “They give themselves these names at the convent—a wood-louse takes her meal by the southern corner, a spider by the eastern corner of the refectory.”

“Ah,” Javert said, looking visibly uncomfortable at what Valjean assumed were more details about a child’s life than he wanted to know.

“That is very well then.” Javert cleared his throat. “And you, Fauchelevent? What line of work will you pursue?”

Valjean still had half of his old fortune saved—but that detail, he had not yet dared to share, even though he had shared his body so willingly. The thought was enough to make him flush; determinedly, he pushed it away.

“There is the priest I told you of, to whom the Mother Prioress recommended me. His vision is not as good as it was; he has need of someone to help with his papers.”

“Surely that does not pay much,” Javert muttered.

The money Valjean had been offered was, in fact, more than an old farmer had once been willing to pay Javert for his slave’s labor. Valjean did not choose to give voice to this thought either.

Instead, he offered, “Together with our savings from the convent it will be enough for a modest life. And Cosette will be of great help there.”

Again Javert made a sound of grudging assent.

“And you, Inspector? I imagine the life of an agent of the police is very dangerous,” Cosette said, refilling Javert’s cup before Javert could say no.

The glance Javert gave Valjean was startled—almost as if Javert was surprised that Cosette had a voice and a mind of her own. But then, Javert had not talked to her since the days when she had been a starved, frightened child that had looked from sad eyes at a world that held only raised hands and painful words for her.

“It is work that needs to be done,” Javert said firmly. “And I am proud to defend society from the dregs of the criminal class. Just last month, we arrested an assassin who had cut the throats of no less than fifteen victims.”

With a gasp, Cosette raised her hand to her mouth, her eyes alight. “How terrible!” she said, although her sparkling eyes gave the lie to that exclamation. ”Do you know, father, it truly feels as if by leaving the convent, we’ve entered an entirely new world, full of wonders and dangers I never knew existed.”

“Less dangers now,” Javert said gruffly. “That man is off to La Force—and then, the guillotine for him, no doubt of that.”

“You will have to visit us often, and tell us all about what new dangers you have faced.” Cosette turned to Valjean, her eyes still alight. “Isn’t that true, father? Tell the Inspector he has no choice but to come and visit us more often.”

Valjean flushed as he met Javert’s eyes, clearing his throat before he managed to speak. “Of course, Inspector. You must make certain to visit more often now.”

To address Javert so respectfully once more was strange all of a sudden, and yet an unspeakable shame rose up in him at the thought of using the intimate _tu_ in front of his daughter. No—that part of what was between him and Javert would hopefully never become known to her. 

“Perhaps I will call on you again tomorrow,” Javert said somewhat stiffly. “Thank you for the coffee, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent.”

Javert bowed, and Valjean used the chance to not only accompany him to the door, but to also step out into the corridor with him for a moment.

Furtively, Javert looked up and down the small hallway. Then he reached out, boldly resting his hand against Valjean’s chest.

“Come see me this evening, Fauchelevent,” he said, his voice low and with the edge of roughness. “That would please me.”

A shiver ran through Valjean, a familiar heat rising within him as he met Javert’s eyes. He inclined his head. “It would please me too,” he said, remaining still for a moment as Javert’s fingers spread, Javert’s thumb pressing against where his nipple had hardened beneath his clothes.

Then, Javert released him, turning away to enter his own chambers, and Valjean took a deep breath.

It had gone well, he told himself. Javert had been kind. He had revealed more than Valjean had hoped—but not the worst. Not that.

Javert had done him a kindness. And Javert had never been intentionally cruel when it came to Cosette. They could find a balance in this as well, as they had in other things. Things could simply continue as they were now. They had an unspoken agreement, after all, a fragile truce, and that was enough.

Neither of them would upset this thing that had grown between them. Valjean knew that much at least.


	58. Chapter 58

The following day was a Sunday. Javert made himself wait until the afternoon until he went to call on Jean Valjean once more—or rather, on the Fauchelevents.

The thought was still unsettling—had he, Javert, truly become involved in such deception?

And yet, as soon as the door opened and the girl bade him inside, all moral conundrums were immediately forgotten.

There, his face lit by sunlight that fell in through windows hung with lace curtains, Jean Valjean stood, patiently returning his gaze.

Did Valjean feel a similar anxiety every time they met? If he did, his face did not betray it. There even seemed to be a hesitant warmth in his eyes as he stepped forward to shake Javert’s hand.

“I’m glad you could make it, Inspector,” he said calmly.

For a heartbeat, Javert found himself returned to Montreuil-sur-Mer. Would such an accord have been possible between them back then? Or such an arrangement?

Surely not. While Jean Valjean might be a good man, he was no magistrate and would never be. Goodness alone was no reason to abet deception, especially in matters of importance.

Half an hour later, Javert had finished two cups of coffee, resisting the girl’s attempt to serve him a third slice of cake.

“It is getting late,” he said, “Surely you have other tasks—”

“None are as exciting as a visitor.” Cosette’s eyes still shone with delight. “Will you tell us more about the criminals you have caught this week?”

Javert gave the girl a considering look. She was gangly, her face narrow and pale. She wore a sensible gown of black wool, her hair pulled back into a simple, pinned braid. By all appearances, Valjean had done the right thing: the influence of the convent was apparent in every aspect, and the seclusion had kept the girl from vanity and an interest in worldly matters.

Certainly it would have been for the best for the girl to remain in the convent—and yet, now that it meant that Valjean’s door was only a few steps from his own, Javert found that he could not feel regret.

Javert had allowed the silence to linger too long. Cosette moved to refill Valjean’s own cup, then turned her attention on Javert once more.

“And you, monsieur?” Cosette now enquired. “You are an Inspector—and a friend of my father? How did you meet?”

Javert’s eyes came to rest on Valjean, who had paled. But still he sat calmly, meeting Javert’s gaze, a plea in his own eyes.

Javert’s jaw tightened. Was not dishonesty the source of all evil? Had he not sworn that he would never tread that path that lead right back into the nmire from which he had pulled himself with such difficulty?

“We met a long time ago,” Javert said stiffly. “I grew up in the south.”

“Oh, how I long to see the ocean,” Cosette said with a sigh. “Father, you never told me you had a friend who was an Inspector. An _old_ friend!”

She turned to eye Valjean with pretended outrage. Once more Javert could not help but be taken aback at how unlike this girl before him was to the thin, frightened waif they had taken from the Thénardiers. Could it truly be the same girl? Her words were cultured, and she spoke with ease to keeping the flow of conversation going.

How unlike Valjean she was too, who had often sought refuge in smiles and silence in Montreuil to hide his lies. And yet there seemed to be no artfulness to the girl—on the contrary, something about her made him feel unsettled, as though it was he, Javert, who was not fit for such company.

“It was of no importance in the convent,” Valjean mumbled. “He could not have to come to visit there.”

A tendril of satisfaction unfurled inside Javert when at those words, Valjean’s eyes guiltily skidded away.

“In fact,” Javert said, his satisfaction rising at Valjean’s reaction to his next words, “my apartment is on this same floor. So you might see more of me.”

Cosette gave him another happy smile, as if completely unaware that Javert might mean danger for her and this life she had become used to. Next to her, Valjean shifted.

“Yes. About that,” Valjean said awkwardly. “I wanted to… Yes. You will certainly have to visit more often now.”

Javert looked from Valjean to Cosette. Was this how it was going to be? Would he keep secrets from the girl… and be rewarded with Valjean’s company for his complicity?

The thought still sat ill at ease with him. He shifted again. To leave now, with so much left unsaid, would be to admit defeat.

And yet… to admit what was between them, would that not also be to admit to more? What reason could they give for the years of deception? What man would allow his convict-slave to move freely and live in a convent?

At last, Javert came to a decision.

“I will have to,” Javert said grimly. “It is my duty, for one thing. You do not remember me?” he then addressed Cosette, who mutely shook her head.

“You were very young when we first met. I was appointed your legal guardian, out of a certain necessity.” Javert could not help but look at Valjean, who had paled even more. “This man whom you call father did not fulfil certain legal requirements.”

“Regardless of that,” Javert added after a moment, feeling restless at the way the girl stared at him, “regardless, it changes little. Your father cared well for you, you would agree? Then I have no doubt he will continue to do so.”

Javert nearly grimaced. Where had those words come from? Still, technically, there was no untruth in them. The justice of the peace would not care whether Cosette called Jean Valjean father or not, but he _would_ care that she had been provided for.

He looked at Valjean again, who had remained silent through the conversation. His face was pale. His hand, Javert saw, before Valjean quickly dropped it from the table, was trembling slightly.

“How do you know me, Inspector?” Cosette now asked. She, too, was pale, but there was a quiet determination in the way she sat up, the gangly body tense as she stared at him.

For a moment, Javert remained silent, considering.

“I only saw you when your father took you from the people in whose care you had been left. Criminals, the bunch of them.” Javert’s face twisted with disgust at the memory. “Thieves, and murderers too, I have no doubt. Beyond that, I do not know you, mademoiselle, and I assure you that the guardianship was only given to me because there was no better alternative. No, and your father chose well for you in giving you the opportunity of an upbringing in the convent of Petit-Picpus; hardly a choice I could have denied, even had I wanted to.”

Valjean had still not spoken. Finally, Cosette turned her head, releasing Javert from her disquieting gaze, and at last seemed to realize the state Jean Valjean was in. Then her pallor receded, and she took hold of Valjean’s hands.

“I think I remember you from an old nightmare, Inspector… But come, father, you are pale. Are you afraid that I will no longer call you father? How silly it would be to say _vous_ , and _M. Ultime_ , would you not agree?”

And there, at last, at her gentle touch, color returned to Valjean’s face, and Javert watched with a sudden, painful jealousy how Valjean drew her hand towards him and kissed it tenderly.

“Very silly,” he said, avoiding Javert’s eyes.

After the visit was over, Javert walked for a while, eager for the cool air to calm his fevered thoughts. How strange it was to sit in Valjean’s apartment, drinking coffee with the man and the girl as though that was a completely normal thing to do—as though there was not the brand hidden beneath Valjean’s shirt.

Was not Javert now complicit in Valjean’s duplicity? Just as he had in Montreuil, Valjean once more pretended to be a man he was not.

And yet, this time, Javert could not see the harm in it.

It was true that it would do the girl good to learn about the fatal weakness of her roots, so that, just like Javert, she would walk with care from now on, aware of the depths to which one single misstep could bring her.

Still, from all that Javert could see, she had been raised well—in too much comfort, perhaps, but then he found it hard to disagree with Jean Valjean on the topic of her upbringing. If it made the man happy to play father to her, why should it matter to Javert? Surely that was no crime.

Abruptly, Javert ceased when he realized where his thoughts had taken him.

Jean Valjean’s happiness—was that the measure Javert would use now?

It seemed absurd, and yet, once more, there was that insidious voice within him that spoke, _What does it hurt?_

Jean Valjean was a convict-slave—but did that forbid happiness? And as he was Javert’s, was the decision then not also solely Javert’s?

The thought was unsettling—mainly, Javert began to realize, because it was a truth that had slowly built, little by little. He did no longer desire Valjean’s sweat and exhaustion as a proof of expiation for his crimes, although that sight had once given him such fierce satisfaction.

These days, there was a different thing on his mind, an image that could not be erased even if he tried: the thought of Valjean relaxed in his bed, strong thighs splaying open for him, the trusting surrender to Javert’s hand.

Heat twisted in his stomach, and just as abruptly as he had stopped, Javert resumed his walk—although his legs now took him with hasty steps back into the direction he had come from.

***

It was late when a knock came on Javert’s door. All evening, Javert had carefully thought of nothing; now he hastened towards the door. There, a familiar figure stood in the dark corridor. Wordlessly, Javert stood aside, waiting until the door was closed until he grabbed hold of Valjean’s lapels and pressed him against the wall.

“You came,” he said hoarsely.

“I thought you might want me to come.” Valjean hesitated for a long moment. “And I wanted to come, too.”

Javert released a rough laugh, and then, once more, his mouth was on Valjean’s, Valjean’s body relaxing against him.

“Wait,” Javert muttered when he drew back a moment later. He turned aside, reaching for a drawer. From there, hidden beneath a stack of papers, he pulled a key and put it into Valjean’s hand.

“There. No one will hear you knock now.”

A small smile appeared on Valjean’s face. “And if they see me use a key instead?”

“Well! What then?” Javert said irritably. “We are old friends, is that not true? Might not a friend hand another a key?”

“Yes,” Valjean said softly, pocketing the key. “One might.”

In silence, Javert made his way to his bedroom, aware of the soft steps of Valjean behind him. It was dark already. He had lit a lamp earlier; now, in its light, he wondered for a single, surreal moment whether he should have asked Valjean to sit down first and offered him a glass of wine.

But when he turned, Valjean was right behind him in the twilight of his bedroom, and there was no hesitation in him as his hands came to rest on Javert’s coat.

“Yes. You did want to come,” Javert found himself murmuring. And then, for a while, he ceased to think, observing instead as Valjean stripped him with strong, rough hands that moved fast but touched carefully, the powerful body of Valjean revealed afterwards by those same hands as Javert watched.

It was easy to tumble Valjean onto the bed. It was easier still to part those legs—all it took was the touch of his hands for Valjean’s thighs to spread. Valjean was aroused, his prick resting swollen against his stomach. When Javert slicked himself with oil, Valjean watched him from eyes that were soft and dazed with want.

Valjean took him easily. As soon as Javert pressed inside, a shudder ran through Valjean. One hand he clenched into the sheet, the other reached down to slowly stroke himself. As his thighs clenched around Javert’s hips, Javert watched, panting at the sight of Valjean, whose head fell back when he thrust himself fully inside him.

Javert could not speak. There was nothing to say—no words that could express the triumph and the beauty of possessing Jean Valjean, of making powerful limbs tremble with thrust after thrust, Valjean’s fingers clenching around himself as he willingly opened himself up to Javert, able—eager, even—to take whatever he was given.

Valjean was groaning softly, his face damp with sweat. When Javert reached down to pull his hand away, he allowed that, too.

Slowly, Javert ran the pad of his thumb down the swollen length, feeling the pulsing of blood against his skin. When he reached the full sac beneath, he curved his fingers around the balls, testing their weight.

“No wonder you wanted to come.” Javert’s voice was low. He thrust inside once more, Valjean’s body arching towards him at the stimulation. “Were these in need of attention?”

The muscles of Valjean’s stomach shifted as Javert gently pressed down with his thumb, parting the globes in their pouch. Valjean’s lips parted; he panted desperately, and as Javert watched, a string of clear fluid leaked from his prick.

“Do they ache?” Javert then asked, relentlessly pressing down until Valjean groaned, his prick jerking. With another low laugh, Javert decreased the pressure and stroked them with his thumb instead. “Shall I make them feel better?”

Again Valjean groaned, his eyes hooded. He shifted on the sheets, offering no resistance to Javert, his chest rapidly rising and falling.

“Yes,” Javert muttered, satisfied. “Yes, you’d like that.”

The way Valjean unraveled beneath him was intoxicating, as it had always been—perhaps even more so than the tight, soft heat of Valjean clutching at him.

Once more, Javert thrust inside. Then he rested his hands on the backside of Valjean’s thighs. As he forced them to bend further, he pushed in even deeper that way, watching as Valjean’s eyes fell shut again. Valjean’s head was tossing back and forth, sweat-slick white locks sticking to his forehead.

Jean Valjean was _his_ —in the one way that mattered the most, his surrender absolute.

Again Javert’s hips came forward, heat rushing through his veins. He panted, bending low over Valjean, pressing his knees nearly to his chest as he spent himself with short, desperate thrusts—and then Valjean, too, was groaning, back arching towards him as his trapped prick pulsed in wet, hot splashes between them.

“I should leave,” Valjean murmured long minutes later, when they had barely disentangled themselves.

Javert wrapped his arm loosely around his back. “Stay a while.”

It was not a command, but Valjean followed the pull of his hand easily enough, voicing no protest, his head resting against Javert’s shoulder, his breath warm and easy.


	59. Chapter 59

They had shifted during the night. When Jean Valjean woke, he was disoriented for a moment. It had grown dark, but he was warm and comfortable, his body relaxed. A heartbeat later, he realized where he was. He was still in Javert’s bed.

Javert was pressed against his back. Between Valjean’s legs, one of Javert’s hands had come to rest, lightly cradling his genitals. For long minutes, Valjean did not move. The touch was comforting. Javert was asleep, his breath warm against his nape. There was no threat in the touch—instead, it was strangely reassuring. Valjean felt safe.

He could not say for how long he rested there. He knew that he needed to return to his own apartment, in case Cosette woke during the night—but just for this moment, the warmth of Javert and the certainty of his touch was too seductive. How many nights had he spent thus in the bagne?

And now, there was no danger, no back-breaking labor waiting for him the following morning, no strikes of the cudgel or that ghastly _tu_. To think that it was _Javert…_ But then, Javert was warm like any other man, and his embrace was like that of any other man, too.

At last, Valjean half rose. Javert’s hand slipped from between his legs, remaining lightly curled on his thigh as Valjean looked down at him.

It was dark, the lamp no longer lit. In the sparse moonlight that fell in through the window, he could barely make out Javert’s features. Even so, a strange tenderness seemed to have taken possession of him as he looked down at Javert. In sleep, his formidable features were relaxed, the tiger rampant now dormant. His brow was smooth, his lips slack.

Carefully, like a man reaching out to a wild animal, Valjean raised his hand. His fingers brushed the coarse hair of Javert’s whiskers. Then he allowed them to trail downward, the back of his hand touching Javert’s cheek ever so slightly.

How strange it was to touch Javert so and feel neither revulsion, nor the overwhelming need of earlier. All that was within him now was a sort of curiosity, and a slowly shifting warmth—kindled, perhaps, by nothing but familiarity.

Still, it was true that they knew each other, in a way that no one else knew Jean Valjean. And was it not also true that Javert had changed? Something fundamental about the man seemed to have shifted ever so slightly, as even a marble statue might shift during an earthquake. Javert had not been toppled by that upheaval—but neither was he quite as he had been before.

And did not he, Jean Valjean, have reason to understand how a man might be changed by the strangest of circumstances?

In the darkness, the pattern of Javert’s breathing changed ever so slightly. It was difficult to make out in the darkness, but Valjean suddenly realized that Javert’s eyes had opened.

He did not pull away his hand.

“Sleep,” Javert murmured at last, his voice rough with sleep. “It’s still dark outside.”

“I have to leave,” Valjean said with quiet regret. He shivered at an unexpected twinge of longing for the heat of Javert’s embrace and the sensation of falling asleep with another’s breath against his nape.

He pulled away his hand, then leaned forward and, ever so gently, pressed his lips to where his fingers had lingered instead.

“Goodnight,” he said softly, and then got up to leave—only to feel Javert’s hand close around his own.

Javert did not speak, although the press of his fingers spoke for itself.

At last, Valjean was released when he remained unmoving, too aware of the fact that Cosette was asleep across the corridor to give into the temptation of the heat of Javert’s embrace.

“I will see you tomorrow,” he said instead, a hesitant smile on his lips. “Goodnight, Javert.”

Javert inclined his head. “Goodnight.”

It was strange to leave Javert’s room at this time of the night. It had to be past midnight. Javert was right that friends could have such meetings—they were old friends, after all, and could very well be in the habit of sharing tales over a bottle of wine late into the night.

Even so, Valjean’s sated body spoke a different language, and he was grateful that the corridor was dark and silent as he crossed it.

His own apartment was silent as well. Cosette was still asleep as he quickly looked into her room, and that, too, was a relief.

He did not light a candle as he made his way into his bedroom, undressing and washing himself silently before he slipped into his cold bed with only the moonlight to guide him. When he fell asleep, he could still feel Javert’s hand—the sure, warm weight of it cradling him with near chasteness.

***

“Father,” Cosette asked when they walked through the Luxembourg the next day, “how is it you have never mentioned the inspector before?”

Valjean remained silent as they walked past a statue.

“An old friend, he says—he must be, for you have never mentioned him before, and he never visited.”

“It would not have been allowed in Petit-Picpus either way,” Valjean said gravely. “But enough of the past. Why not tell me more about what you were reading yesterday?”

Cosette was long used to his silences and strange habits, and so good-naturedly took his evasion in stride, happily chattering away about her latest readings and the goings-on on the street they lived on, stopping only to point out birds in the park. Smiling, Valjean watched her, unable to take his eyes away from her upturned face and the way her eyes filled with light when she laughed.

Javert’s words had done no harm. Everything was still as it was. Cosette had accepted his truth with as little questioning as she had accepted old Fauchelevent as her uncle in the convent, and Valjean as her father.

And it was true: for Cosette, certainly nothing had changed. She remembered little of her childhood, and Javert’s truth changed nothing about the years they had spent together in the convent. What were legal details to a girl her age? She had forgotten all that was wretched and dark in the world; to her, life had begun when Valjean had taken her small, red hand in his own and led her away to a life filled with love.

There was no reason it could no stay that way. Surely that was what Javert had given him: one truth revealed, to appease the inspector who abhorred a lie, and a further truth of lesser importance not denied, but merely not voiced. Surely Cosette had no need to know about Valjean’s past. It was not truly a lie: it was Javert’s right to govern Valjean’s life, and there was no law that demanded he give up such details about Valjean to the girl who was his ward.

On their way home, they passed a wall to which another pamphlet was stuck; Valjean did not dare to raise his eyes to it, for fear that Cosette might take notice of it, and hurriedly hastened past it.

“What’s the hurry, father?” she asked, laughing and clinging to his hand. “Oh, I forgot—is your friend coming to visit again?”

“I don’t know,” Valjean said, paling as he realized that this might very well be the case, the key to Javert’s apartment a guilty weight in his pocket.

“There is coffee,” Cosette said resolutely, “and I shall ask the portress for cake.”

“He might not come,” Valjean then said. “Or perhaps, he will come in the evening.”

“That’s right,” Cosette mused, “he might be at work. Well, in any case, it will be good to be prepared, now that we will have a visitor every so often. Who would have thought it, father: me and you, walking the streets of the city at last, and with company to entertain! How very good it is to live!”

“Yes,” Valjean said quietly, watching her bright, upturned face with secret guilt. “How good it is.”

***

What had at first seemed nearly too strange to be real soon became familiar enough that Valjean ceased to fear. After all, what difference did it make to cross the corridor to Javert’s apartment? It was not so different to coming to him, back in those days when Valjean had lived in the convent.

“There you are,” Javert said one winter evening, the air cool and crisp outside. It was warm in Javert’s apartment; he had a fire going, and Valjean found himself staring at the stove in sudden wonder, for there had been none the week before. Could this be for his comfort?

Javert looked tired, he then realized. Stranger still, Javert had not risen from where he was seated at his table—but there was a bottle of wine on it, and two glasses, Javert’s half full.

“Sit,” Javert said after a moment. “That is, if you would like.”

In acquiescence, Valjean inclined his head. He studied Javert as he joined him. The man did look tired, his skin ashen in the light of the lamp, shadows beneath his eyes.

“Are you well?” he asked at last.

Javert did not answer, but poured him a glass and pushed it towards him.

“Yes,” he then said. He raised his eyes, studying Valjean quietly. “No, but it’s of no importance. It was a long day.”

Valjean frowned, although he took a sip of his wine. The vintage was cheap and heavy, settling hot in his stomach. “Forgive me, but you do not look well.”

“I’m exhausted,” Javert muttered. “I haven’t slept in two days.”

Valjean made as if to rise, and Javert immediately waved him back down.

“I can call a doctor—”

“No,” Javert saved hoarsely. “No need. I’m not sick. It was a matter of the police: an assignment which I could not abandon. I cannot give you more details; regardless, it is done, and I do not think this man will harm any further innocents, now that he is in La Force.”

“Forgive me,” Valjean said after a moment of studying Javert, “but why are you not in bed then? Why wait for me with this?”

He gestured almost helplessly at the wine. It was true that their relationship had changed over the years—but still, one truth had remained, and that was that during those evenings when he stole into Javert’s rooms, Javert would await him, his hands hungry and demanding, and neither of them would feel much reason nor desire for conversation when they tumbled into Javert’s bed.

This was different, and for a man like Javert who rarely changed his routines, it was worrying.

“Because I wanted to wait for you,” Javert admitted after a long moment. Then he laughed, a short, despairing laugh, which abruptly cut off when he raised his glass to empty it. “I can barely think right now,” he murmured. “You should go back, and I will go to bed. But I wanted to see you. I wanted... I wanted to see you.”

He reached out to tiredly rub his hands over his eyes. In the flickering light, Valjean could make out the shadows of his unshaved face.

Suddenly come to a decision, Valjean raised his own glass to empty it. The heaviness of the wine was not unwelcome, the burst of cheap, sour fruit bringing with it a sudden rush of memories.

“Then let’s go to bed,” he said simply and stood, holding out his hand to Javert.

After a long moment of staring at it, Javert grabbed hold of it. Valjean lead him to the bedroom.

“There’s no need for you to stay,” Javert muttered. “I cannot—I am too tired…”

“Sleep,” Valjean said and undressed Javert with firm, unhurried motions. Then he drew off his own clothes, a brief twinge of guilt remaining as he thought of Cosette.

“Sleep,” he repeated and slipped beneath the covers next to Javert. For a moment, the guilt increased; then, he found the heat of Javert’s skin and relaxed against it.

Javert was warm. How strange it was, Valjean thought again as he deliberately closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Javert’s nape. Like this, there truly was no difference.

It could have been anyone. It could have been Boucard, who had held him so many years ago.

But even with his eyes closed, he knew that it was Javert. The scent was distinct, a mixture of the soap Javert used and a hint of his sweat. He smelled warm and safe—and that, perhaps, was the strangest realization of all.

Javert was already asleep. He had asked for nothing tonight, and Valjean knew that he could have left after the wine they had shared, and Javert would have said nothing. He could leave even now: after all, Javert was asleep, and what difference would it make to him if Valjean was here or in his own apartment? And then, across the corridor, Cosette was asleep in her bedroom, and he should be back there in their own apartment.

But for some reason, Valjean found himself unable to move. Javert was still and silent, save for the soft sound of his breathing. He was warm. Valjean pressed a cheek to his nape, his own body soaking up the warmth. It was comfortable to rest like this. He was not tired enough to sleep, but the comfort of it was hard to resist.

For an hour, he rested pressed to Javert, breathing quietly against his skin, his arm slung around Javert’s body. Then, at last, he roused and slipped from beneath the covers, careful not to wake Javert. The room was still pleasantly warm; he made certain to add more wood to the stove before he left.

His own bed seemed strangely cold and empty, and he tossed and turned for a long time before he found rest that night.


	60. Chapter 60

Javert could not say how it had happened, but by the time spring thawed the snow covering the grass in the Luxembourg, he found himself walking there by Valjean’s side every Sunday, unless work kept him from it.

It was not so displeasing, to sit on a bench by Valjean’s side. The girl was given to mindless chatter about flowers and birds, whereas Valjean was given to gazing adoringly at her while she prattled—but all the same, it meant that Javert could gaze at Valjean in turn. And that, as unexpected as it had come, was reason enough for him to keep accepting Valjean’s invitations.

“I wonder,” Javert found himself murmuring one day, Cosette already asleep. “I wonder…”

Valjean’s head lifted from his book. He gave Javert a curious glance. He was in his shirtsleeves, at ease, with no cravat around his throat. Even now the sight of the bare, vulnerable flesh and the white hair peeking from the triangle of open shirt at his throat roused something within Javert.

“What is it?” Valjean asked after a moment, lowering his book.

Javert was tired and content. They had shared some wine earlier. In a while, they would surely retire to Javert’s bed, where Valjean would be his for an hour or two.

Perhaps it was the wine that made him speak. Or perhaps, it was the sight of the pale skin of Valjean’s throat, and the thought that soon, he could press his lips to that place and feel Valjean’s breath speed up.

“I wonder what would have been, had we travelled like this, back when I—back when I bought you,” Javert said.

A flush rose to Valjean’s cheeks. His eyes went to the door that lead to Cosette’s room.

“It’s not something you would have wanted, then,” he said carefully.

Javert laughed. “No. I suppose I would not. But if I had… Many things would have been different.”

Valjean closed the book and set it aside. “Does it matter? It cannot be undone.”

“And so it is better to ignore it?” Javert tilted his head, studying Valjean frankly. “No. One can talk of things, even when they cannot be undone. You do not like it; I know that much, but—”

Valjean shook his head. “Are you asking me whether I wish it had been different?” He swallowed thickly, his eyes closing for a moment. “Of course.”

“No,” Javert said impatiently, “that’s not what I am asking at all. Of course you would. You asked me for it back then, I well remember that.”

Valjean shifted in the way that Javert had come to know as a sign that Valjean would soon try to find an excuse to end the conversation. And Valjean was not wrong: surely there was nothing to be gained from this. And yet…

“What I’m saying, you fool,” Javert said, heat rising within him, “is that I wish I could’ve had you back then.”

To have had Valjean the way he had him now. Javert did not say it. And yet, the thought of spending that long journey with Valjean amicably by his side, Valjean following of his own will, Valjean allowing his touch with that same breathless surrender…

Again Valjean gave Cosette’s door a nervous look.

Emboldened, Javert reached out to grab his hand. Valjean allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, his cheeks still flushed. He did not protest, following along willingly until they were in Javert’s apartment at last, where Javert pressed against the wall with one hand flat against that broad chest.

“There. Are you more at ease now?” Javert murmured.

Valjean drew in a shuddering breath. “Javert…”

Javert’s hands moved down, only to find their way beneath the shirt, greedily trailing back up the bare, hot skin beneath.

Breathing heavily, Valjean allowed it all to happen.

“I think of having you on that journey,” Javert muttered. “I think of that confession you made to me. I think of how it could have been…”

“Isn’t it enough that you have me now?” Valjean gasped.

One of Javert’s hands drew down to the pleasing shape of Valjean’s arousal, thick and heavy behind the fabric of his trousers. Javert pressed the heel of his palm to it, massaging slowly. His touch was rewarded with a groan and the sight of Valjean’s eyes sliding shut.

“I think of that confession.” Javert pressed himself closer against Valjean. “To admit such a thing, and to me… How that thought tormented me afterwards.”

“I did not mean for it to—”

“I know.” Slowly, Javert massaged the heavy weight between Valjean’s legs. “I know.”

Valjean’s face was flushed, his eyes closed. He already looked half undone. Javert thought with sudden, furious need of the way Valjean looked when he sank into him, the sounds he made, so overwhelmed by sensation that it seemed at times that a single touch could undo him.

“Come,” Javert said, hungrily pulling at Valjean’s clothes. Moments later, their bodies bared, he pressed Valjean down onto his bed. Valjean’s legs parted for him with natural ease, allowing him to rest between them.

Valjean’s prick was still heavy, and so was the sac beneath. Javert ran his fingers over it, idly enjoying the way Valjean let him stroke and gently prod the sensitive balls without protest. His other hand drew through the carpet of hair on Valjean’s chest, admiring the tense muscles there, the strength that so willingly bent for him.

“How much you like this,” he said with quiet appreciation. 

Valjean’s chest was rising and falling with every breath he took, his eyes wide and unfocused. At Javert’s words, heat rose to his cheeks again, and his arms came up to wind around Javert’s shoulders.

“You know I like your touch,” Valjean said breathlessly.

“Yes.” Javert’s voice was thick with need and possessive pride as he released Valjean’s balls at last to draw his finger downward, brushing the ring of muscle there. “And you like it best here.”

Javert could feel Valjean’s thighs tremble at his words, Valjean shifting on the bed.

“Yes.” The admission came quietly.

Valjean’s eyes had fallen closed again as he gave himself up to Javert’s touch, who gently ran his finger around the tight hole without penetrating. At last, Javert closed his hand around Valjean’s aching arousal again, leaning forward so that his own length slid hot and hard against Valjean’s crease.

Valjean was visibly struggling to open his eyes, his pupils dark and unfocused when he finally looked at Javert. “Do you—would you want me to…?”

“Would I want _what_?” Javert slowly dragged his thumb from the root of Valjean’s shaft to the sensitive tip, skin already wet.

The touch wrung another groan from Valjean, one of his hands clenching in Javert’s hair.

“I don’t want to be selfish,” Valjean said after a moment with obvious difficulty. His hips shifted as Javert kept slowly massaging him. “If you wanted to…”

Javert laughed hoarsely, although his hand ceased its motion. “If I wanted to take your place, you mean?”

Valjean’s flush told him that he had guessed right. Still, Valjean did not avert his gaze.

“Only if it’s what you desire.”

Javert’s first instinct was to bark a refusal. The notion was ridiculous. Was this not what he had desired all along? Was this not what had haunted his thoughts: the strong thighs parting, Valjean’s body yielding, surrendering himself to Javert in every way? Of his own will, with his body helpless and overwhelmed at the pleasure of it?

Javert’s mouth was dry as he contemplated that familiar tableau of Valjean’s ecstasy.

There was something at once distasteful and intriguing about the thought of taking his place. Javert swallowed the refusal already on his tongue.

To feel what Valjean felt. To know what Valjean experienced. Moreover: to know that Valjean had never done such a thing before, that this would be all Javert’s, that Javert would have this part of Valjean, too…

His nostrils flared as he looked down at Valjean for a long moment.

“Very well,” he said at last, feeling lightheaded at the decision. “Very well. And why not? Why should I not know you in that way, too?”

Hesitantly, Valjean sat up, one hand still on Javert’s shoulder.

“Come on then,” Javert said, and he moved to lie on his back, pulling Valjean over him. “Let us see how much you like this.”

Valjean looked down at him. There was a crease between his brows, but he reached out for the lamp oil and silently slicked himself.

“You must tell me if you do not like it,” he then said. “I would not—”

“I know you wouldn’t force yourself on another,” Javert said roughly. “Wasn’t that the first thing you admitted to me? Never fear. I know you, Jean Valjean. Come now, this isn’t the time to hesitate. Let me see what it is that makes you moan so.”

Valjean flushed at his words, but moved in between his legs all the same. Javert spread his thighs to allow Valjean to settle in between, Valjean’s body forcing them further up and apart. He groaned once as Valjean brushed against him.

Valjean’s eyes were still holding his, warm and a little shy, and fierce satisfaction spread in Javert when he thought of how Valjean had never done this before. Not in the bagne, not with anyone.

“Come now,” he said again, curving his hand around Valjean’s shoulder, then sliding it down his back.

Valjean’s skin was warm, and already damp with sweat. Beneath his touch, Valjean’s muscles tightened. Slowly, Javert’s hand stroked up and down, enjoying the sensation of hard muscle flexing nervously beneath hot skin, all of that strength at his command.

And then, Valjean moved, the oil-slick length pressing against him until Javert’s body began to give.

Javert ground his teeth. The stretch was unpleasant. It stung, despite Valjean’s slowness. Still, he kept his hand on Valjean’s back in silent encouragement, tightening his thighs around Valjean’s hips.

Then Valjean was inside him, and a groan escaped him after all. The penetration ached—but all the same, something about the fullness was strangely pleasant, so that he grasped at Valjean’s shoulder, digging his nails into his skin.

Valjean, too, was breathing heavily. His skin was damp with sweat. He pulled back a little, then thrust back inside, and suddenly, something about the pressure within Javert caused a spark of heat to flare up.

“Is this good?” Valjean’s voice was rough, his muscles trembling beneath Javert’s touch. He held himself still in impossible control, and Javert groaned and dug his nails in deeper.

“Stop talking,” he commanded roughly. “Go on. Go on!”

A drop of sweat ran down Valjean’s brow, but even so he kept watching Javert from dark, unfocused eyes as his hips began to move.

Javert was gasping for breath. It still ached. Something about the experience made him feel horribly exposed, too naked and open beneath Valjean. But Valjean’s skin was hot against his own, the room smelled of their desire, and with every slow thrust of Valjean’s hips, Javert felt that strange, pleasurable fullness that made him want to groan.

He relaxed his hand, trailing down Valjean’s back. His fingertips followed the deep valley between the bunching muscles of Valjean’s back until he found the hard, round buttocks, curving his hand around them with possessiveness, feeling every thrust that filled him.

The ache was almost good now, a strange sensation between pain and arousal. He had softened a little, but when he closed his other hand around his prick, it throbbed in his hand.

This was better. He touched himself in time to Valjean’s thrusts, heat rising and falling within him. He was damp with sweat, his breath coming in little gasps. Embarrassed, he noted that he had clenched his legs tightly around Valjean’s waist, his hand still gripping his buttock harshly, as if to draw him even closer.

Valjean’s hair was soft against his cheek. He could feel the heat of Valjean’s breath, which was coming in desperate little gasps.

“Come now,” Javert muttered again, the words harsh as the heat within him rose. “Come now, finish it—”

Beneath his touch, Valjean strained, the powerful body taut as a bow. Again Valjean’s hips came forward, Valjean’s hardness sliding deep and hot inside him—until finally Valjean shuddered, a groan breaking free from his throat as he spilled himself inside Javert in spurt after spurt.

Impatiently, Javert tightened his fingers around his shaft. His blood was roaring in his ears, his body aware of nothing but the weight of Valjean and the strange pressure of Valjean filling him so completely. Hard and demanding, Javert tugged on himself—and then, obediently, his own body followed, his own release coming wet and hot between their bodies.

Long moments later, Javert was the first to stir.

“It was good,” he said as he sat up, his brows drawing together as he looked down at Valjean, sweaty and exhausted, spread out on his bed. “But you needn’t fear that you are selfish.”

“You did not like it?” Valjean stirred at last to turn to his side, looking up at Javert.

Javert contemplated for a moment. “I much prefer having you beneath me.” He turned as well, placing one hand on Valjean’s chest, who allowed himself to be pushed onto his back without resistance. “And I think, so do you.”

After a moment, Javert smiled a little, his hand idly running down Valjean’s chest. “Yes, so do you. Judging by those sounds you make when I have you.”

Valjean had softened, but he stirred again when Javert’s finger trailed past his length, sliding down into the shadow between his buttocks to brush the opening there once more.

“I like those sounds you make when I am _here_ ,” Javert murmured throatily. “You like that, don’t you? And if I’d been there with you in the bagne… You’d have been mine there willingly. Gladly.”

Again Valjean’s muscles were tensing as he held himself perfectly still beneath Javert’s touch. And then, at last, his breath went out of him in a sigh. Against the pad of his finger, Javert could feel the quiver of the tight muscle.

“You know I would,” Valjean agreed. He did not look away, even when Javert’s hand at last retreated.

Javert’s body still ached in an entirely unfamiliar way. It had been good; he had not lied to Valjean. And still—it did not compare to having Valjean beneath him, all of Valjean _his_ and his alone.

“Do you regret it?” Valjean finally asked softly. “It feels like—it’s unbearably good, for me.”

Javert allowed his smile to widen, his fingers gently trailing back up Valjean’s thigh, fingertips idly grazing his balls. “I know that. And I don’t regret it. But what I enjoy the most is what I’ve learned today.” 

Javert leaned forward, his fingers closing lightly around the spent testicles. “How very sensitive you are,” he murmured, delighting in the way that even now, a shudder ran through Valjean, his eyes losing all focus. “And how much I enjoy it to make you feel that way.”


	61. Chapter 61

Spring turned into summer, and for the first time in his life, Jean Valjean allowed himself to let down his guard. He no longer had to fear that a man might call out his name to alert the police, and as horrible as the truth of Javert's purchase of him was, this arrangement they had found was, perhaps, the best a man in his position could hope for. It might not be freedom in the eyes of the law, but was he not free in everything but name?

It was true that he still belonged to Javert—but Javert had not demanded anything Valjean was not willing to give. Moreover, had not Javert surrendered himself to Valjean as well? They were at peace. They were companions. More than that—as strange as it seemed, they had become friends, for that was what Cosette called them, and it was the role they played. Yet at some point, it had ceased to be pretense.

Without fail, Valjean still stole into Javert's bed every evening—but now, he often had Javert's company for their Sunday walks and for the occasional dinner. It was mystifying, but it was the truth: as different as nature had made them, wolf and dog, lion and tiger, there was comfort in Javert's company.

And at night, Valjean would press himself against him, the heat of Javert’s skin and the rapture of Javert’s caresses touching him in ways no other had in a long, long time.

This fragile balance changed one day when he took Cosette out for their accustomed walk in the afternoon, after they had spent the morning at Saint-Sulpice. Cosette had been unusually quiet, although there was no trace of sadness in her. Instead, she looked thoughtful. Every now and then, when they passed groups of young women, Valjean watched how her head turned, and how she observed them with a puzzling concentration.

"To the Luxembourg?" Valjean inquired, more out of habit, for that was always where their walks took them in the afternoon.

To his surprise, Cosette shook her head. "No, father. I'd like to go to the Boulevard des Italiens, if you do not mind very much."

Valjean smiled. "To walk past the shops? Yes, let us watch the people out to do their shopping, and then you can tell me about what you read yesterday."

Cosette nodded, the familiar smile gracing her face at last as she began to summarize the novel for him. His earlier surprise forgotten, Valjean lost himself in observing her face, her smile worth more to him than her summary, for the sound of her voice still caused joy to well up within him without fail.

And yet, when they reached the Boulevard des Italiens, Cosette fell silent once more, listening to Valjean with an air of distraction. Despite what had brought them to this part of Paris, she no longer seemed interested in the small groups out to frequent the shops. Instead, her steps slowed every time they passed a window. Once or twice, she stopped completely, seemingly lost in thought as she looked at a display of hats.

At last, when they reached the windows of No. 2, a dressmaker by the sign that hung over the door, she turned towards Valjean with a quiet, focused determination. Valjean was strangely unsettled, for this behavior seemed to him entirely new.

“I would like to go inside and look at the dresses, father,” she said.

Surprised, Valjean could only nod.

“Of course,” he said, opening the door to lead Cosette inside. He could not say why it felt to him as if a sudden upheaval was threatening his world; there was certainly nothing extraordinary about entering a shop, even if they had never visited the shops in the Boulevard des Italiens before.

For a moment, he was content to observe Cosette, who stood quietly, turning around to look at the various dresses and different fabrics that were on display. A minute later, the dressmaker’s apprentice came towards them, a frown on her face as she looked Cosette up and down.

Suddenly Valjean realized why he had felt so unsettled. Cosette was still clad in her scholar’s gown of black merino, wearing the simple, familiar cut of the pupils of Petit-Picpus. Over the years, her gowns had grown in size, but her scholar’s outfit was still as simple and familiar as it had always been, Cosette the same to him as she had been six years ago.

Yet the gowns on display in this dressmaker’s shop were not intended for children. The colorful fabrics and flared skirts surrounding them were the dresses of the fashionable young women who filled the boulevards of Paris.

Valjean froze as he thought of the way Cosette had watched those women earlier. All of a sudden, the entire endeavor seemed foolish to him—was not Cosette still little more than a child who should be playing games in the convent? Surely this was no place for her. Surely—

“May I help you?” the apprentice asked, and while Valjean looked at her with a deep unwillingness, Cosette had taken a determined step forward.

“This gown is very beautiful. Can I have a look at it?”

“It is the color of the season, mademoiselle. You have a good eye.”

Speechless, Valjean watched as Cosette and the apprentice walked around the gown, critically eyeing fabric and cut. Where had he seen a similar gown before? Had not one of the women they had passed earlier worn the same pale yellow?

“You don’t mind father, do you?” Cosette asked, her face flushed with delight.

Valjean could only mutely shake his head, even though he had missed what she had said earlier. A minute later, it became clear to him what he had agreed to when the apprentice whisked Cosette away together with the gown.

“Please take a seat, monsieur,” the woman said cheerfully. “Mademoiselle will surely want to know your opinion.”

Valjean did not have to wait for very long before Cosette returned. Gone was the black scholar’s gown that had wrapped loosely around her much like a nun’s habit. Instead, the new gown was made from a damask of pale yellow, which was embroidered with a pattern of green leaves.

Valjean stared at her, silent and stunned, beholding now at last the reason for the dread which had befallen him every now and then in the past year.

With a laugh, Cosette turned. “Is it not very pretty, father?”

“Very,” Valjean said in the same tone in which one might have uttered the word _dreadful._

Yet Cosette did not even look at him. Her gaze had been drawn to the large mirror that displayed her figure; pleased, she turned before it, only to point with determination at one of the bonnets on display.

The bonnet she had worn on entering the shop was of blue plush; a monstrosity, the dressmaker’s apprentice would have named it, had her manners not forbidden her to do so.

The bonnet that was quickly brought to Cosette now was of crape, and with it fastened on her head, the effect was startling.

Jean Valjean felt a sudden pain in his heart as he beheld Cosette smile to herself in the mirror, tilting her head this way and that, the apprentice already explaining how the dress would have to be altered here and there to fit her figure.

It was a charming sight: Cosette, despite her innocence in the matter of toiletry, standing before the mirror with delight, preparing to confidently charge forward into this new battlefield of the Parisian fashion. And yet, to Valjean, the sight seemed as ominous as a glimpse of funeral garb.

Deep within him, he had known for a very long time that he had been given more than what a wretch like him deserved. Now, to his horror, he saw Cosette take a first step that set her on a road leading away from him. He could not have been more distraught had she at that moment purchased a seat in a diligence to leave him behind.

“Come, let us look at those fabrics some more,” Cosette said merrily, completely unaware of the upheaval that was taking part in Valjean’s soul. “Is there no damask like this, but in black?”

“A light green might suit mademoiselle as well,” the apprentice said with a critical look at Cosette’s locks, “but we have a bale of the finest black damask that might suit for a dress.”

With delight, Cosette bent over the length of fabric that was unfolded for her while Valjean watched in sullen silence, his heart heavy.

A mere week later, he had gone out for his first walk with Cosette by his side, clad no longer in her merino gown and her plush hat, but wearing instead the gown and cape of black damask, and a bonnet of white crape which Cosette had purchased from Herbaut.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, and in the Luxembourg, a squirrel had paused, curious and unafraid, to watch as they passed it. Later, a lark had long rested on a branch above their bench and sung.

On any other day, Valjean’s heart would have been overflowing with gratitude that he should have been given the love of this child made of nothing but innocence and goodness. And yet, today, it was as if a dark cloud hovered around him, and no matter where he looked, the birds fell silent, the sunlight retreated, and all manners of things he had taken joy in before because they brought Cosette joy had lost their luster.

Cosette was no longer his alone. Now, as they slowly walked along the boulevard, heads turned and Cosette attracted admiring gazes. In despair, Valjean felt every regard turned her way like a stone upon his breast, weighing down his heart until the burden seemed impossible to bear.

When they returned to their apartment, he slowly followed Cosette into her room. In her wardrobe, her scholar’s gown of black merino still hung.

“Will you not wear it again?” he asked almost desperately, thinking of those innocent days of the convent, when there were walls all around them, and where life could not intrude.

“Those horrors? Surely not.” Cosette laughed as if he had made a jest.

In silent misery, he watched as she sat down in front of her mirror, taking off her bonnet and smiling at her reflection.

Later that evening, he sat morosely at the table next to Javert, who had come to share his dinner and a glass of wine, listening to Cosette’s chatter, which even now could not drive the melancholy from him.

Had he been able to pay attention to anything but the precipice of loss that had appeared so suddenly before him, he might have noted the way Javert had halted upon entering their apartment, and the way he frowned every now and then, as if puzzling over something.

Instead, Valjean pondered in quiet despair the walk they had taken today, every step appearing to him one step closer to some dreadful apparition: a girl no longer in need of her father, a heart content with some as yet unseen shade, instead of being happy with her father’s love alone, whose old heart was too weak to unlearn how to love so dearly and completely.

At last, when they had finished their dinner, and when their wine had nearly been drunk, Valjean roused himself from those gloomy thoughts when he heard Javert say, “Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, you seem much changed to me today.”

Smiling with pleasure, Cosette laughed at them. “Can you believe that father assumes I would still wear that old monstrosity? No indeed!”

When Valjean turned to Javert to see whether here at last, he would find an understanding audience for the secret pain that had cut him so deeply, he found Javert frowning once more, eyes still resting on Cosette.

How peculiar Javert looked today. There was something thoughtful about him. Creases had appeared between his brows, and he sat straight and tense in his chair.

How strange the sight was. When was the last time Valjean had seen Javert like this? Had he become so used to the intimate sight of Javert unclothed and flushed with desire that he had all but forgotten about the sight of Javert, the merciless hunter?

It was not much later that Cosette retired. Almost immediately, Javert stood as well, stiffly inviting Valjean to his own quarters with the offer of another bottle of wine.

Valjean followed obediently, the unsettling behavior of Javert not enough to match his despair over the change that had overcome Cosette.

For once, Javert did not push him against the wall with quiet confidence as soon as the door had closed behind them. Instead of the bedroom, Valjean was led to Javert’s small study. Javert still seemed withdrawn, his brow creased, but now Valjean welcomed what was to follow with unhappy gratitude. Whatever it was surely could not be worse than the misery that had already been visited upon him this day by Cosette’s innocent hands.

Javert poured them each a glass of wine. He nodded for Valjean to take a seat. Javert chose to pace instead, but turned abruptly after a moment to fix Valjean with a stare of determination.

“That dress she was wearing. It was new,” Javert said.

“It was,” Valjean replied.

“And her bonnet, it was new as well,” Javert said.

“That is true.”

“And her gloves and shoes were also new.”

Valjean bent his head in weary acknowledgement.

A part of his heavy heart suddenly felt a little lighter at the thought that Javert had seen the torment that had been visited upon him today. He had not even thought of confessing to Javert, certain that Javert would not quite understand the dread that had pierced his heart with such a lethal blade. But he had underestimated Javert. Javert might not share his love for Cosette, but nevertheless he understood the tragedy of this development.

“And I assume you paid for it,” Javert continued. “Jean Valjean, it will not do to encourage her in such habits. Have you forgotten who she is? What she was supposed to learn?”

Surprised, Valjean remained silent, struck by Javert’s words.

“I do not know much about dress making, but that gown seemed to me made of a good fabric. The gown looks sensible, as did her old one, that much is true—but what will come next? If you give in to the demands for this, what will she ask for next, now that she knows you can be persuaded so easily? Have you forgotten the fate of the girl’s mother? To encourage coquetry, to encourage—”

“You know Cosette,” Valjean said with dignity. “She is just as she was. But she is too old to dress like a child. Now, she is dressed how a young woman her age should be dressed. Had she her mother here, she would have seen that a while ago, rather than having her walk outside in that old _horror_.”

The words were bitter on his tongue. To now have to defend what would be his own ruin! But he could not agree with Javert, not in this. Had the girl not suffered enough? Did those hands that had once rested in his own, red and covered in chilblains, not deserve now fine gloves of silk, if that was what Cosette desired?

Javert made a displeased noise. Again he began pacing, back and forth between the window and the chair upon which Valjean sat.

At last he abruptly turned. “And think of your own situation. I have told you before, I cannot and will not support such a lifestyle as you think she should have—”

“You need not,” Valjean spoke with pained resignation.

“What you must earn from the assistance you give to that priest at Saint-Sulpice—”

“There are also my earnings from six years in the convent,” Valjean said quietly. “And what Father Fauchelevent left her. He would have wanted her to be happy. Don’t worry about us, Javert.”

Javert drew in a sharp breath, his mouth opening as if he wanted to speak, but then snapping shut again. Agitated, he paced back to the window, one hand twisting into his whiskers.

“The things you do to me. Do you even know what you have done?” he said in a low voice, his back towards Valjean. “The girl was to learn honest work. She was to be kept from the path her mother took. And I, Javert, allowed myself to be made her friendly guardian. It is I who is responsible in the eyes of the law for every step she takes. And yet, even knowing all that, I do not care about the girl so much that I would interfere for her sake. That is what you’ve done to me, Jean Valjean. I know that I cannot have you unless you believe the girl is happy. And have you I must… Even at the cost of my soul.”

Before the window, Javert released a low, despairing laugh, staring outside at the darkened sky.

A moment later, Valjean found himself rising without thought. He stepped behind Javert. His hand reached out, nearly touching his shoulder.

Even now, with the pain in Javert’s voice, Valjean could think of nothing but the selfish agony of his own heart. A dreadful certainty filled him that with every step Cosette took out into the world, she took one step further away from the idyll of her childhood, when Valjean’s love had been all she needed.

Nevertheless, he finally rested his hand on Javert’s shoulder, standing quietly by his side until at last, Javert turned to face him, his eyes wild and determined.

“Have you I must,” Javert murmured, and then he wound his fingers into Valjean’s hair to draw him close for a desperate kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to [chabouillet](http://chabouillet.tumblr.com) for the historical inspiration for both dresses and dressmaker's address.


	62. Chapter 62

In the following weeks, Javert began to pay more attention to Cosette. At first, he told himself that it was of the utmost importance to make certain that there was none of the ruin that had befallen her mother in her.

To lead an honest life was not easy—Javert knew that truth all too well. Where Valjean was blinded by love and eager to overlook any sign pointing towards such worrying developments in Cosette, Javert was her guardian, appointed by a magistrate, and an impartial observer with none of Valjean’s weaknesses when it came to the girl.

Unfortunately, it seemed to Javert that Valjean had been right, and that little else had changed about Cosette other than the clothes she wore. Listening to her prattling about birds and books and the events of her day still gave him a headache, and after a month of vigilance during the meals and walks they shared, he had come to the conclusion that for once, perhaps Valjean had not been too lenient. Certainly the clothes were a waste for a girl like Cosette, but her nature was still honest, and she appeared wholly devoted to Valjean and the work they did for the poor of Saint-Sulpice.

As little as Javert liked being wrong, he was relieved by the way the matter had played out. He did not care much about fashion, save for the awareness that Cosette’s guise was that of a girl above her standing—and yet, Valjean was not wrong in that she was no longer a child, and that, perhaps, given their work with the priest of Saint-Sulpice, there was reason to dress like a sensible woman now.

In any case, the matter seemed resolved to him. It was a further proof of Valjean’s weakness—but then, it was that same weakness that had made Valjean rebel against all chains and come straight to Montfermeil for a child, instead of escaping with his freedom. Perhaps Javert should have expected these developments all along.

The issue had long since fallen from his mind when Valjean opened his door to him two months later. Valjean seemed a little sheepish as he asked him in, but Javert took no notice. He was still distracted by a murder that had finally been solved, and the thought that in just a few hours, he would press himself to Valjean’s back, hearing Valjean cry out as he took possession of his body in the way they had become accustomed to.

It was not until Javert had made his way into Valjean’s sitting room, his hand already reaching out for the back of his chair, that he halted, his mouth open in astonishment at the view that presented itself to him.

There, at the table, a young bourgeoise was sitting, her hair perfectly coiled beneath a bonnet of violet velvet, clad in a pelisse of black satin. Unperturbed, she looked up at him, by all appearances completely unaware of the shock she had caused in her observer.

“Javert, sit down,” Valjean said as he came up behind him. “The portress promised us a rabbit that is still stewing, and I have another bottle of that Argenteuil you liked so much last week.”

Disturbed, Javert sat down without protest, his eyes still on Cosette who smiled at him.

“How has your day been, dear inspector?” she asked. “When we took a carriage home from the boulevard, there was some commotion we passed by. Father told me not to worry, and I’m certain it was of no importance, but I kept thinking of how dangerous your days must be.”

Immediately, a denial sprung to Javert’s lips. Then, before he could stop himself, and instead of interrogating Jean Valjean the way he deserved, Javert found himself remarking on the new bonnet instead.

“It seems to be velvet; is that true?” he asked while next to him, Valjean froze.

“You have a good eye, inspector.” Cosette gave him a pleased smile. “One must have a hat for a Sunday, after all.”

“And the pelisse looks very fine on you as well, mademoiselle.”

Cosette inclined her head modestly, although her eyes were gleaming with pleasure. “That is very kind of you to say.”

Javert’s eyes found Jean Valjean’s face, who was very pale but met his gaze with steely determination. What was that look in Valjean’s face? Surely not fear. A challenge, then?

Javert knew that he had every right to stand up and end this charade, to demand of Cosette why she thought she deserved to be dressed in damask and velvet, and to confront Valjean with the unpleasant truth that he was spending more than he had—and all to keep a girl happy who would sooner or later find a lover to pay for silken gloves.

Instead, and he could not even say why his good senses had left him so, he remained seated. Javert accepted food and wine without protest, frustrated by the way Valjean could never be happy with a good thing and ever had to test his patience more, yet at the same time too afraid of what might be lost if he ended this charade like he knew he should.

***

One day in the summer of 1831, when Javert had returned early from the station-house, he found Jean Valjean distraught. Valjean looked as white as a ghost, his face marked by a grim set of determination.

"Good God, what happened?" Javert asked as soon as he had flung his hat into a corner, stepping forward to grab Valjean's arm. "Did someone recognize you?"

At the sound of his words, Valjean started. For a moment, he stared at Javert, his mouth moving soundlessly as though he was arguing with himself.

Then, very slowly and seeming very hesitant, he shook his head. "No. I don’t think so. But I have to leave."

The shock hit Javert like a knife stuck into his heart. He did not remember moving, but suddenly he found himself up against Valjean, whose back was in turn pressed against the wall.

"Javert," Valjean was saying, his eyes wide and shocked—though there, at last, was the hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I would not go far. I will move into a small house on the other side of the river. In fact... in fact you might move there as well."

"Move there! Where? And how? Jean Valjean, you are the devil," Javert burst forth, his heart twisting strangely in his chest, "to say such a thing to me and to make me believe that—but never mind. What's that terrible plan? And what for? Speak, man. People usually give a reason before assaulting another in such a way. It’s a wonder your girl grew up with any manners at all, looking at you."

Valjean raised a hand, resting it very gently against Javert's face, the way one would calm an irritated animal.

"Forgive me," he said softly. "I did not think... You must know that I wouldn’t willingly leave you behind. Are we not too close for that?”

Here, in the privacy of Javert’s bedroom, Valjean had switched back to the familiar _tu_. He no longer looked quite as distressed. And when Javert pressed closer—close enough to kiss, if he would lean just the slightest fraction forward—he felt most of the tension go out of Valjean, who offered up his familiar surrender once more.

“Are we?” Javert asked, watching closely as Valjean’s eyes widened at his question.

Even now, the sight of Valjean’s pain hurt. Valjean’s question had been reasonable: had not Valjean earned his trust by now?

But by that same reasoning, Javert too should have won Valjean’s trust, and he had not. Even now he wished that he could ignore the niggling doubt. But how could he, when this infuriating man would be his so easily, surrendering to everything Javert would ask—but never the most important thing. Never his secrets.

“The dress of black damask,” Javert said, wielding each word like a knife. “The crape bonnet—from Herbaut, or so Cosette told me. The silken shoes and gloves. Her bonnet of violet velvet. The satin pelisse. You have good explanations for all of these, but I tell you, Jean Valjean, there never was a gardener who went shopping at the Boulevard des Italiens, and never one who patronized Herbaut and Gérard either.”

“Javert, I told you—” Valjean began, the softness of surrender leaving him as his body stiffened in alarm.

Javert ignored his protests, still holding him pressed against the wall as he continued.

“And now a house. A house you desire to rent, large enough for Cosette and yourself, and apparently also for myself. On the other side of the river, you say. Now, what sort of house is that? How much do you expect the rent will be? Surely it will not be another dreadful hovel like the Gorbeau tenement?”

Silently, Valjean shook his head. “It has a garden,” he then admitted. “It’s a small pavilion, where Cosette might live, with a woman to do our cooking. And a lodge in the garden, which might suit for me…”

“And I will live there in that hut with you?” Javert scoffed. “An entire house for mademoiselle Cosette? And a servant for her? And for you a hovel?”

“It might be made more hospitable, surely…”

Valjean’s eyes did not meet Javert’s, and it was obvious to Javert that Valjean had not truly considered this plan before.

“A pavilion. So why then would you—and I, I suppose—not live in that pavilion with mademoiselle?”

In truth, now that Javert considered the thought, he felt a sudden horror. To draw Valjean into his own apartment in the middle of the night was one thing—but to do such things as they did, to sleep with Valjean in his arms in the very same house?

“You cannot have both,” he said fiercely. “Either you are a free man and I am your friend, and then what we do is not something that can be done in that house, with her to find out at any moment. Or, you are no free man but my slave, and then I can have you the way we both desire, and we can live where and how we please, but then you cannot go on with this charade and the girl will have to know everything, from who and what you are to who and what her mother was.”

“A saint!” Valjean cried out in sudden agony, “a saint, Javert, can you not see that? To suffer as she did, to give all she had and more, to save her child—you cannot keep speaking of Fantine in such a way.”

Growling with frustration, Javert grabbed Valjean by the lapels. He pushed him against the wall before he released him and took a step back, tugging hard on his whiskers in frustration.

“Very well!” he exclaimed, “very well, then let’s say that’s true, the woman of the town is a saint, the bagnard is one as well, the agent of police is in the wrong, the state is unlawful, the world is turned upside down, and yet good men must still persist and make their way forward somehow— Let’s say all of that is true and right, but then it still doesn’t change that I cannot very well share a bedroom with you in this mad fantasy of yours!”

Breathing heavily, Valjean stared at him from where he was still leaning against the wall, his shirt ruffled and his white locks disheveled. Even now, he held himself perfectly still, without having lifted a single finger to defend himself against Javert’s fit of passion.

“And if,” Valjean ventured forth at last, his chest rising and falling, “and if there were two bedrooms, for you and for me, and if Cosette were to reside on a different floor…”

Again Javert came forward. Slowly, he moved dangerously close, placing one hand on each side of Valjean as he leaned in once more. Undaunted, Valjean met his eyes.

Javert smiled. “And if there were two bedrooms, for you and for me,” he pronounced with deliberation, “and if there were rooms on another floor for Cosette, and if there were a woman to do the cooking and the daily errands, and if there were a garden—then yes, I would like to live in such a place.”

Valjean released a relieved breath, his lips turning up a little as he tilted his head hopefully.

“Only,” Javert continued mercilessly, “only it is a shame that I could not live there with you, because if you had such a sum of money, Jean Valjean, it would mean that you had stolen it, and that I have been wrong in you, and that I must return you to justice even if I have to turn myself in alongside you.”

Abruptly, Valjean froze, the smile fading from his face as he paled. Javert still held him trapped, one arm at each side surrounding him. Javert was so close that he could feel the heat of Valjean’s breath on his lips, and he was close enough to see how his pupils dilated with what had to be sudden fear.

“Enough of the lies,” Javert said very softly. “Enough. I have ignored state and law for you, Jean Valjean. I’ve often wondered whether I’ve gone mad, but for some foolish reason, it seemed the right thing to do, even if it meant the end of Javert and the beginning of doubt. But I will not doubt in this. This is taking it too far. I will ask you one last time: what is the meaning of this? Think twice before you give me more of your excuses. I will have the truth, Valjean. If what there is between us has any meaning to you at all, you will at least respect me enough to give me truth, if you cannot give me trust.”

Valjean trembled. His lips had parted. His face was very pale, and as Javert watched, a sudden, hectic flush began to redden his cheeks. Once more he would not meet Javert’s eyes, his gaze darting towards the door as if he yearned to make his escape, as he had so often before.

Yet Javert did not take his arms away, and Valjean did not lift a finger against him.

“I trust you, Javert,” Valjean said at last. “You cannot doubt that. Even now, I sometimes wonder how that should be, when you are Javert, and I am Valjean. Yet still I do. But there is one thing you can’t ask of me. Please, Javert. I would give everything to you; anything you ask, and you may have it of me, no matter what it is. But this one thing—it is impossible—”

“It’s because of her,” Javert said with sudden, fierce jealousy. “The girl. Even now you will protect her. Even from me. Well, Jean Valjean, I am her guardian. What right do you have to keep secrets from me? If the affection between us is not reason enough, then perhaps it can be coaxed forth by the power I have over her? What if I say no to your plan? What if I find her a place to work, a seamstress to apprentice her to—no more satin pelisse and damask gown, no more bonnets from Herbaut—”

“Please, Javert,” Valjean begged in agony, his hand coming up to rest against Javert’s shoulder. “Don’t set yourself against me in such a way. All I could bear—whip me rather, send me back to the bagne, geld me if you must. But if you take Cosette from me, don’t you know that you take my life?”

With a sound of frustration, Javert’s arms flung out, releasing Jean Valjean at last as he took a step backwards.

“And still you do it,” Javert said in torment. “Still it is her, only her, you think of. It is true then—you don’t trust me. After everything, even now, you don’t trust. Did you only come to me at night for her sake then? When you lie beneath me, sweet and obedient, is that only to pacify me, to ensure your freedom and her comfort, with no regard for—”

“Javert.” Slowly, Valjean raised one hand, his fingers trembling. When Javert did not move, he at last stepped forward. He took a shuddering breath, then pressed his hand to Javert’s breast.

Javert’s heart gave a jolt. Even now, hurt and frustrated by this man who could keep hurting him so after all the years that had passed, Javert found that he could not move away, even though his heart ached as it had never before.

“Javert,” Valjean murmured again, his voice little more than a bewildered whisper. As Javert watched, his fingers tightened slightly in the fabric of Javert's shirt.

“She is a child,” Valjean continued helplessly. “She needs me more than you do. I would give my life for hers. But you must know that what I feel for you is not… I’m not using you. And I’m not trying to placate you. Am I not here with you, after all these years? What more can I do to show you that you are… that what we have is…”

His mouth moved, his throat working, but no word came out. At last, when Javert did not react, he slipped his hand up to Javert’s shoulder, standing so close their chests touched.

“If the man who first showed me tenderness were to appear now, promising to lead me away to a happy life in Bordeaux, far from all this, I would not go with him.” Valjean gave Javert a beseeching look. “I would remain here with you, by my own choice. Isn’t that enough? Don’t ask for more from me. You must know that you are dear to me. Despite all that has happened, this is more than comfort. You must know it.”

“But still you won’t give up your secrets,” Javert said bitterly. “Must this always be between us? What does it take to earn your trust, Jean Valjean? I want all of you. To have you completely. For you to surrender not only your body, but also your heart and soul, to be mine out of your own, free will. So far it seems that you’ve given your body only, even though I thought that it was more.”

Again Valjean shuddered. His eyes were very wide and very bright. For a long moment, he remained silent. When he spoke at last, Javert could feel him trembling, as though he had taken one final, terrible step forward to rest his head in the mouth of a lion.

“If I give you this,” Valjean spoke slowly, his voice shaking, “then I’ve truly given you everything. Then you have me in your power—not only my body, but my very soul, which has been promised to Heaven long ago. And any action you take might pull that soul away from the path to goodness and thrust me right back into the hell where a wretch like me by right belongs. I want you to know this, Javert: now I’m truly giving you everything, and if you like, you might use it to punish and destroy me as you see fit, and it would serve me right. But Cosette—she has never done a wrong thing in her life.”

Again Valjean paused. He raised his eyes to a point somewhere above Javert, his mien fearful. Then, still trembling, he began to speak once more.

“Here is my confession. Three hundred thousand francs you returned to Arras, for the state to do with as they saw fit, although it was I who had earned that fortune with honest work. But the remaining three hundred thousand, I took and hid them while you were delirious, resting in the innkeeper's house in Montfermeil. It was not Thénardier who fled with the money. I hid half the fortune from you, and when I escaped with Cosette in that garden, I retrieved it once more and hid it somewhere safe. Ever since Cosette and I left the convent, we have not lived on what little Father Fauchelevent and I saved up, but on what I earned in those days long ago in Montreuil-sur-Mer, producing beads of black jet.”


	63. Chapter 63

Valjean’s heart contracted with fear when Javert staggered backwards at the impact of his confession.

“All this time,” Javert said slowly, staring at him. “All this time you lied to me.”

Valjean did not dare to move. He had spoken the truth: he had not only placed his fortune in Javert’s hand with those words, but also the fate of his soul. 

Surely he had been allowed to regain the money to ensure Cosette’s happiness. He had not touched it, save for buying what was necessary for him and Cosette; he had no intention of touching it now, feeling a vague fear that one day it might be needed to ensure Cosette’s freedom.

Five thousand francs had gone to the convent as a donation, to pay for the schooling Cosette had received. Despite what Valjean had told Javert, the priest of Saint-Sulpice could pay only very little for the help they gave him—and often, Valjean would simply give what they received to the beggars outside the church.

Out of the half of his fortune that still remained to him, he paid the rent for the small apartment they lived in, and he had bought Cosette the fashionable gowns that had delighted her. Neither of those expenses had made a dent in the sum. He could well afford to rent a small house with a garden. But that was not why he had kept the money hidden from Javert in the first place.

It had been a final layer of security: if Javert were to ever turn against him, he could use the money to run with Cosette and build a life elsewhere. That was what the money meant: his freedom, and in turn, Cosette’s safety. God had given this child’s love to him, and he would keep her safe, no matter what it took.

Yet if Javert were to take the money from him now, returning it to a state that would greedily swallow it so that it would vanish without doing any good for those who most needed it, then he and Cosette would be helpless in truth. 

“Well? Have you nothing else to say for yourself?” Javert demanded. He had flushed with anger, but deeper still cut the surprise in his eyes, and the hurt.

What right had Javert to be hurt? It was not fair of Javert to demand trust. How could he demand trust of Valjean after what he had done? Was it not enough that Valjean had trusted his body to him, that he trusted Javert with his surrender, that he had even trusted him with Cosette’s company?

“You can have my body,” Valjean said slowly, his mouth dry, “but you cannot have my soul. It was bought from me and given to God long ago. And my heart you will always have to share with Cosette. That is the truth of it. That is the only way you can have me.”

Javert threw up his arms in frustration, then at last came closer once more.

“I know why you didn’t tell me,” he said, baring his teeth. “All this time that you’ve slept by my side, drunk my wine, lead me through parks—all this time you’ve rested secure in the knowledge that at any moment, you could grab Cosette and flee from me, if I gave you a reason.”

Valjean could only nod. There was no use in denying what they both knew as the truth.

“How can there be affection if there is no trust?” Javert thrust a hand into his whiskers again, tugging hard as he began to pace.

“By God, I know that I have no right to demand your trust—but then, you gave it voluntarily! Did you not give it when you didn’t run? When you gave yourself to me in the most intimate way? Might not a man expect that such things mean more than just a transaction, a bargain?”

“It was never a bargain,” Valjean murmured. “You know that. I wanted comfort. But it’s more than that.”

Long moments passed during which Javert kept pacing. At last, he turned back to Valjean.

“So what now? You give me this truth as one throws a bone to a dog. What am I supposed to do with it? You say that taking Cosette from you means taking your life. You admit that you have committed a grave wrong—that money belongs with the court, Jean Valjean, and you know it—and you expect me, Javert, to look the other way. Oh, in the matter of the girl—why not. I knew it was not right, but it seemed strangely easy to let law and truth bend just a little. But in this! Am I to abet your crime now? Three hundred thousand francs, Valjean. We would both go to jail.”

Again Valjean felt the old indignation. Had the state not taken enough from him? Would it never be over? He had been sold like an animal, branded and collared, and still it was not enough for what small wrong he had committed in his youth?

He clenched his jaw, raising his head as he looked at Javert. “I committed no crime in Montreuil, and you know that. You of all people know that I tried to do good, and that much of this money was earned long before they made me accept the title of mayor. You have seen me work. You have seen me build that factory. It was honest, hard work, Javert. You know it was.”

“But you were an ex-convict!” Javert stared at Valjean. He looked disheveled, his whiskers in disarray. “It’s not for me to decide—the money was to go to Arras, who would then decide what to do with it.”

“That’s what you think is right?” Valjean asked, his heart pounding. “Is that what you think, even now, after I have rested against your heart night after night?”

Again Javert thrust his hand into his hair, giving Valjean a look from eyes that were as wild as those of a spooked horse. “Have you not done enough to me? Must you continue to vex me so? Will you never be pleased, until all that was Javert has been worn away? Nothing of me will be left if you continue like this.”

Tentatively, Valjean reached out, placing his hand flat against where he could feel Javert’s heart pounding in his chest. “The best part will remain,” he said softly. “All that is good. All that has been tempered in doubt. I know it hurts. But I also know that you are an upright man. Loyal, honest, impossible to bribe.”

“And is that not what you’re trying to do?” Javert said bitterly. “Bribe me with your love, against all that society declares right?”

“What do _you_ think is right?” Valjean didn’t remove his hand.

Beneath his palm, he could still feel the frantic beating of Javert’s heart. That was who Javert was. A man. Just a man—a man he knew intimately, who had seen him at his most vulnerable. A man whom he trusted with his surrender.

But there was one thing he could not trust anyone with, and that was Cosette’s wellbeing.

“I don’t know.” Javert’s voice was tight. He closed his eyes in torment, his face a grimace, though he didn’t move away from Valjean’s touch. “It should not matter what I think. The law doesn’t care about my opinion. We can want things although we know that they are wrong. The only thing that keeps me from those men in the galleys is that I don’t give in to those urges—and, if I did, that I’d punish myself for that as ruthlessly as I would punish any other.”

“What if it _does_ matter?” Valjean asked. “It matters to me. I don’t care about the law, Javert. The law did not care that once, long ago, there were seven little children starving. It punished me for my crime—but it changed nothing about the fate of those children. Do you truly think that what you’ve done for me ought to be punished? What evil has come of it? A convent gained a gardener for a while, a child gained a father. Where is the evil in that? You know that the money was earned honestly. You know what I tried to achieve in Montreuil-sur-Mer. I know we never saw eye to eye there, but you know me, Javert. You know me.”

Javert’s throat worked. He stared at Valjean from bloodshot eyes.

“There are days when I regret my rashness in buying you,” he murmured, then barked a laugh, thrusting his hand back into his hair.

“Yes, Jean Valjean, damn you—yes, you are a good man, and although you lied in Montreuil, the work was honest. I can admit all of that. But should I now be an accomplice to theft?”

“Is it theft?” Valjean asked calmly, holding his gaze. “The money is not for me, in any case. You know it isn’t, or I would never have hidden in the convent. If anyone were to find out who and what I am, that money will be my last chance to save Cosette.”

“The child of a prostitute,” Javert muttered.

“A child, loved by her mother, who gave everything she had to save her daughter,” Valjean said, staring at Javert. He did not look away until, after a long moment, Javert laughed in despair and lowered his eyes.

“Why must you continue to torment me so?” Javert asked through clenched teeth. “Is it not enough what I’ve done? What more will you ask?”

“I only ask you to look closely. To decide what is good not based on the law, but based on what compassion tells you. There’s an authority higher than that of the assizes. Surely you know that.”

“I must be mad,” Javert said in despair, “to keep listening to you. To want to believe you! Don’t you know what you’re asking of me? To treat you as though you were a man just like any other—perhaps that’s madness, but no crime. But this… I will be no better than you, Jean Valjean. At long last, I will be what I always guarded against: a man who by all rights belongs in the bagne, clad in the red instead of the blue.”

“Will you?” Valjean tilted his head, pressing down just a little harder with his fingers. “Then tell me—not whether it is right, but whether it is _good_. To take money that was earned honestly from a man, and to deny a child—”

“I don’t care about the child!” Javert burst out. Violently, he grasped Valjean’s hand, pressing it even harder against his chest. “Don’t you know that? You talk of what is good and what is bad, what is right and what is wrong—and all I can think of is that I cannot bear the thought of having you taken from me. Not by the state, not by jail, not by your old friends from the bagne—and no, not even by the girl.”

“Javert—” Valjean began, surprised.

Javert drew him into a hard kiss, as much a bite as a caress.

“I know I cannot compete with her,” he said bitterly. “I would—by God, I would, if I didn’t know that it’s the surest way to lose what little of you I own.”

“Is it so little?” Fearlessly, Valjean met Javert’s eyes. “Everything else that is left is yours. A father’s heart belongs to his child, and my soul must be devoted wholly to a higher purpose—but all else belongs to you. I’ve given you more than I’ve ever given anyone. I haven’t run, isn’t that true? I have given you my trust, Javert. I could have run again, instead of making this confession. You know it’s true. What is that, if not trust?”

“You seek to kill me with frustration, or else drive me mad,” Javert snarled, panting now as he fisted Valjean’s shirt. Then, with an anguished sound, he lowered his head.

The kiss was greedy and uninhibited, Javert’s hot tongue thrusting deep into Valjean’s mouth so that he moaned at the sensation. When they parted long minutes later, Valjean was dizzy and breathless, his heart racing in his chest. His lips felt bruised, his cheeks sore from the burn of Javert’s coarse hair.

“I’m still yours,” Valjean said softly. “I’m yours completely now. I’ve given you the power to destroy me, and I trust you not to use it. There’s nothing else you could ask of me.”

Javert laughed voicelessly. “There are a lot more things I could ask, but I won’t. If Javert has to be destroyed to have you, then I’ll give even that. There are days when I wonder if it wouldn’t have been better if I’d raised that gun against myself in that garden in Montfermeil… But I made my choice, and now I must live with it.”

Slowly, Valjean rested his hand against Javert’s cheek. “Will you come with me? To live with me in that house? Nothing else needs to change.”

“You’d still have me rest against you at night?” Javert asked, his eyes darkening.

“You know it,” Valjean admitted, heat rising to his face as he met Javert’s gaze. “I want it. You, there, and not any of those men I knew in the bagne. You, Javert.”


	64. Chapter 64

The little house in the Rue Plumet turned out too small for Valjean’s mad fantasy—although a first visit had immediately clarified to Javert why Valjean had taken such a liking to the house.

The garden possessed a secret entrance. And when he confronted Valjean once more with the fact that always, always, Valjean seemed to try and keep open a way of escape, Valjean had remained silent, his eyes showing hurt, and his mouth set in a way that told Javert that it was no use arguing.

Likewise, Javert would not be argued with in this matter. The lodge at the end of the garden was small. A porter might live in such a place—even a porter and his wife. But not Jean Valjean and Javert.

The small pavilion, in turn, could not be transformed in such a way either. It could hold a bedroom for Cosette and a boudoir on the first floor, and the drawing-room and a kitchen downstairs. There would even be space for the servant Valjean wanted to hire. But there would be no space for both Valjean and Javert, not in any way that would be proper.

Fortunately, there was another empty house found on the same street. It had no porter’s lodge, and no secret entrance. In build, it was not so different to the small pavilion: on the first floor, a generous bedroom for a young woman could be furnished, as well as a boudoir, and the drawing-room, a kitchen and space for a servant on the ground floor. In addition, there was another wing that had once held a nursery and bedrooms for children—which could be transformed into a large study with a fireplace, and on the first floor, two bedrooms suitable for two men such as Valjean and Javert.

It would all be very proper, Javert thought. He bared his teeth as he looked at the unfurnished room, pretending to ignore the soft, hopeful look in Valjean’s eyes and the cutting awareness that a place like this was far above what a man like Javert should rent.

And yet, even now, something stirred within him at the thought that with both of their bedrooms at some distance from Cosette’s realm, they might steal into each other’s bed unobserved during the night, much as they had thus far.

“You will let me pay for my own room,” he said at last, the words sharp, aware that this was an acknowledgment of his surrender in the matter.

Valjean’s face lit up, but he did not speak. Instead, he reached out and took hold of Javert’s hand, pressing it gently.

“If you wish,” Valjean said at last.

Even now, the warmth in his eyes made something inside Javert stir.

It took a while until the house was finally decorated and furnished to Valjean’s liking: Cosette’s rooms with damask curtains, colorful tapestries and furnishings of silver-gilt and mother of pearl, their own rooms sparse. They had kept the heavy wooden wardrobes and desks they had found, only adding another bookcase for Valjean’s books to their study, and beds of sturdy wood made for adult frames.

Valjean had found a woman to do the cooking and daily errands. Her name was Toussaint, and although she spoke with a stutter, she seemed to Javert a sensible woman: quiet, with a good eye for the best bargains at the market, and not much given to the coquetry and worldliness a girl like Cosette needed to be protected from.

It was not until the house was fully furnished and the move completed that they dared to rest in each other’s arms, having nervously waited past midnight, the house quiet and the night dark.

It was Valjean who had come to Javert, which added another layer of pleasure. Javert might have yielded to all that Valjean had desired—to this mad fantasy, this house that was too good for him, this life that should not be—but here, in this one thing, it was Valjean who yielded, and Valjean who seemed to desire even more than Javert.

The night was not wholly dark. It was the end of summer, and while it was no longer sweltering hot, there was no need for a fire. Strangely nervous, Javert had been wasteful, burning a candle even though he could not make himself focus on the journal in his hands. But then, at last, Valjean had come—and now Valjean was resting in his arms, Javert breathing in the familiar scent that clung to his hair, his body filled with warm pleasure at the heat and the weight of Valjean’s body against his own.

None of this should be—but even so, Javert found himself glad that he had yielded to Valjean’s desires in this matter.

Perhaps it was no mad fantasy after all. Perhaps this could simply be. They would lead a private life, shielded from society by a wall and a garden. Javert would continue to do his work, Valjean would continue to support the parish of Saint-Sulpice and walk with Cosette in the Luxembourg. Their neighbors would not see them much, and soon would find other things to gossip about when it turned out that the new tenants were quiet, reclusive people not given to idle chatter.

“Whichever of your old friends drove you here, now I’m nearly grateful for that encounter,” Javert murmured with utter satisfaction. Already, arousal was burning brightly within him after having missed this sensation for more than a week while the move and furnishing had kept them busy.

He brushed his lips to the sensitive skin behind Valjean’s ear, his hand trailing down Valjean’s back in admiration, straight towards the firm buttocks where his reward waited—but then, a moment later, he realized that something was not quite right. Valjean had not answered him, and his breathing had changed. In his arms, Valjean felt strangely tense.

With a frown, Javert drew back a little. “You never told me who it was… Did someone threaten you? You know there’s no need to keep these things a secret from me.”

Valjean was breathing shallowly. In the light of the candle, his face seemed to have paled. He did not meet Javert’s eyes when he finally spoke, although his hand curled hesitantly against Javert’s chest.

“It was no one I knew,” Valjean admitted. “I told you that it wasn’t… It wasn’t that.”

“What now,” Javert said, utterly confused as he stared at Valjean. “I know you said that. But why else would you insist on leaving that suddenly? I saw you that day, Valjean. You were as pale as a ghost.”

“It was a certain young man. A man who had been following us. He came to the Luxembourg every day. And then, one day, he followed us to the Rue de l’Ouest. He inquired after us with the porter. So you see what had to be done.”

“No. No, Jean Valjean, I do not see what had to be done,” Javert said in frustration. “Might you not have confided in me first? What madness is it to run from a man you don’t even know? And if he was indeed intent on blackmailing you, why, he would have had nothing to blackmail you with! You should have let me talk to him; the deuce, I would have put the fear of God into him with the cudgel.”

“Does it matter now?” Valjean ventured softly. “I could not bear the way he looked at Cosette. Either way, are we not happy here? Now Cosette has a garden. There are butterflies here, and birds, and no one will ever disturb us. And also… you are here.”

Slowly, his hand relaxed against Javert’s chest, his fingertips rough and warm against Javert’s skin. There was a hopeful look in his eyes, and with Valjean relaxed in his arms, Javert found it very difficult to argue.

“Does that please you?” Javert asked, his voice darkening.

In response, a shiver ran through Valjean. “You know it does.”

He did not resist when Javert placed a hand on his chest and pushed him onto his back.

Javert had made him lock the door behind him when he came in. Now, in the light of the candle, Javert surveyed the stretched-out body of Valjean with pleasure before he reached for the lamp oil on the nightstand.

“It pleases me too,” he admitted in a rough whisper. “More than it should.”

Instead of slicking himself, he pressed two oiled fingers inside Valjean for the pleasure of seeing him arch. Valjean was hard, his body glistening with a sheen of sweat in the light of the candle, all Javert’s.

“How long has it been? Nearly a week?” Javert reached for Valjean’s balls with his other hand, appreciating their fullness and the shudder that ran through Valjean. Idly, he pressed down with his thumb while he twisted his fingers within Valjean. In answer, there was a soft cry, one of Valjean’s hands closing desperately around the headboard.

“Has it been too long? Do they ache?” Javert murmured with a low laugh as Valjean arched once more. “I’m truly amazed that you made it for so long.”

Again he pressed down lightly with his fingers, feeling the sensitive balls shift in his grasp while Valjean groaned. Even now, his cock twitched against his stomach as Javert’s fingers kept up the pressure within him, where he was most sensitive.

Javert’s own shaft was hard as well, pulsing with a consuming hunger.

“Touch me,” Javert demanded, underlining his words with another slow thrust of his fingers into Valjean.

He kept his hold on Valjean’s testes, idly manipulating them with his fingertips while Valjean groaned and arched beneath him—and then Valjean’s hand closed around his own arousal, and it was Javert who had to bite back a groan.

The tight clutch of Valjean’s hand was pleasing, too. His hips bucked forward without thought as he hungrily pressed his mouth to Valjean’s to stifle his sounds. In his grasp, Valjean’s balls pulsed. He could feel the heat of Valjean’s arousal against his wrist, Valjean’s shaft hot against his stomach.

How good it was to be able to touch as he pleased, and to know that Valjean would allow every caress—and every gentle torment.

Javert smoothed his thumb over the plump balls, remembering their heft after he had whipped them. Hot and swollen, they had nearly doubled in size. The whip had left a mark on them, which by now had long faded. Memory made him trace the shape of the former welt with a fingertip, remembering the heat of it beneath his fingers.

Even now, an answering heat kindled in his stomach.

Was that the sort of man he was, a man who took delight in a lover’s suffering?

What a cruel thing that had been. He still remembered Valjean’s cry of torment and his tears. He remembered how Valjean had rested unconscious after the whipping, his back red, a few of the welts broken and bleeding.

And he remembered the size of Valjean’s balls in his palm, hot and swollen and marked by the lash. Even now, the memory had not dimmed. Even now, some cruel part of him wondered what it would be like to see them marked again, to follow a hot welt with his fingertip and feel Valjean shudder.

Was he still that sort of man? The thought was unsettling—had Valjean not given him everything already? Was not Valjean in his arms even now, warm and willing, asking for nothing but the comfort of gentle touches in return? Was this thing within Javert still alive; would it always be between them?

Then Valjean shifted against him, and at the friction of damp skin against his own, it became impossible to focus on anything but the rising heat in his blood.

“How do you want it?” Javert asked hungrily. “Tonight, there are no neighbors. And no need to leave my bed. Tonight, I can have you in the light of as many lamps as I please—and watch you as you come undone at my hands.”

Valjean was looking at him from half-closed eyes, his chest already heaving. Every muscle in his body had tensed to remain still under Javert’s relentless caress.

“I want it like this. You—here.” Valjean released Javert’s arousal to close his hand around Javert’s shoulder, his legs splaying further apart as he insistently tugged Javert upward.

Javert’s finger slipped out of him, Valjean releasing a trembling breath at the sensation, but Javert was already in position. One hand he kept on Valjean’s thigh to hold him in place, pressing it towards Valjean’s stomach—and then, at last, he slid inside.

It was as good as it had always been. The grip of Valjean’s body was tight, Valjean’s body yielding to him even as Valjean groaned, his eyes never leaving Javert’s face.

“I like it like this.” The words came out breathlessly as Valjean looked at him. Half embarrassed, half brazen—and had he looked like that in the bagne, some part of Javert wondered again—Valjean wrapped his arms around Javert’s back, his eyes dark and soft. “So I can watch you loving me…”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” Javert laughed hoarsely as he thrust into Valjean. He groaned at the friction and the heat. Again and again, his hips came forward as he closed his eyes, dropping his head to pant against Valjean’s shoulder while Valjean’s hands rested warm and certain against his skin.

Javert laughed again, this time with despair. “Who knows, maybe you’re right.”

Valjean’s hands were in his hair, clutching him close as Valjean trembled.

_Had_ it been like this in the bagne? Even now, Javert could not stop thinking about it.

“Is this how you liked it there?”

In response, Valjean’s hands trailed through his hair. “You’ve had me on a pile of straw mats. Won’t you be satisfied until I bring wooden planks into our bedroom?” His cheeks were flushed when he raised his head, and then was a wry amusement in his eyes.

Surprised, Javert barked a laugh.

“This is how I like it here, with you.” Valjean released his hair, only to tug him back down for a kiss. “Is that how _you_ like it?”

“You know it,” Javert murmured, a little embarrassed.

Valjean’s eyes were warm and aroused. Desire always gave him that look—as if pleasure brought something inside him to life. Slowly, Javert rolled his hips, and Valjean’s eyes slid half closed as he moaned.

“Yes. This is how I like it,” Javert said, and then he did it again, feeling Valjean’s thighs tighten against his hips.

This time, he took his time driving them both to release, focusing on the sounds Valjean made, on the way his skin gleamed with sweat in the candlelight, on the flexing of hard muscles shifting beneath skin.

And when it was done—Valjean flushed and exhausted beneath him, his eyes closed but his mouth relaxed into a sweet smile—Javert leaned forward and put his mouth over Valjean’s heart, kissing the brand there with aching regret.

Valjean did not stiffen this time, nor did he pull away. His skin gleamed with the sweat of their exhaustion.

Javert kissed the salt from his skin, his lips learning the cruel lines of the brand with a tenderness he had not known he possessed. And when at last Valjean’s arms came around him, Javert rested his head on his chest, his eyes inexplicably burning as he listened to the rhythmic beating of Valjean’s heart.


	65. Chapter 65

When summer turned to fall, life in the Rue Plumet began to feel as if some hand had at last covered them with a gentle veil separating them from the world, granting them a quiet life that more and more felt like a slice of paradise itself to Valjean.

The boy who had disconcerted Valjean had not appeared again. Instead of the Luxembourg, they walked in different parks now or spent mornings in the garden, which slowly began to grow a little less wild beneath Valjean’s loving hands.

He had planted roses, pruned an apple tree that might yield fruit in the following year, weeded out an overgrowth threatening to strangle a tree, and cut back a towering hedge so that the roses would have more light.

And sometimes, he and Javert would sit outside in the evening with a glass of wine, Javert with the Moniteur in his hands and Valjean with a tome on butterflies or other things that aroused Cosette’s interest. Life was peaceful. Life was good.

Every evening, Valjean would clasp his hands and offer up a quiet, desperate prayer of thanks to Heaven itself, daring to address neither God nor the man who had once saved him from the road of evil thought.

He did not dare to think what either would make of the strange peace he had found here. Nevertheless, every night when the garden was dark and silent and Cosette long asleep in a different part of the house, he would soundlessly slip into Javert’s bedroom, or Javert into his.

Life in the Rue Plumet was bliss, and he gave himself over to it with abandon. Valjean let himself be loved by Javert at night and watched Cosette play in the garden during the day. Like this, he prayed, he would be allowed to grow old, safely sheltered away from the world, knowing an impossible happiness that had found him so late in life.

Then, one afternoon late in September 1832, reality intruded upon this impossible utopia once more. It was a Wednesday that had dawned rainy, although the clouds had withdrawn before noon, and Cosette and Toussaint had left together to go to the market.

Jean Valjean had put on his greatcoat and his hat, planning on visiting a bookseller of used books and intending to stop by a shop nearby where he had seen a small writing box in the chinoiserie style, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which might delight Cosette.

To his delight, the writing desk was still displayed in the window of the shop. Within, he found a set of pens which the shopkeeper was willing to part with for free in addition to his purchase of the little desk. As he handled them, a small smile spread over Valjean’s face as he thought of Cosette’s happy embrace.

This was where the fortune that had smiled upon Valjean for an entire season failed at last.

Ten minutes later, when Valjean exited the shop with his purchase an unwieldy bundle under his arm, a cry resounded which he had only just stopped fearing.

“Jean Valjean,” a voice shouted. “Don’t move.”

A heartbeat later, a cudgel came down.

Pain echoed through his bones. For a heartbeat, a past he had thought long buried reared up before him once more—a past where the slightest infraction had earned him the cudgel, where men would shout a number instead of his name, where he was something not truly human.

Then, still frozen by pain, he looked up and saw that it was not a brigand standing over him, nor another convict who might have remembered his name by chance. Above him, cudgel already coming down once more, was an agent of the police.

The shock drove the breath from his lungs, moments before the cudgel hit his arm once more. From the right, two other men were hastening towards him.

Even now, a part of Valjean realized that he could simply throw off this man. He was strong enough to do it. But where would he go? How would he flee, with the police in pursuit? Would he lead them straight back to Cosette? Would he reveal his secrets to acquaintances and neighbors when the police came knocking on his door?

And then, there was no reason he should fear the police now—not unless Javert had given away his secret.

His throat dry, bending beneath the cudgel, he considered that painful idea for a moment. Then handcuffs snapped into place around his wrists. When he looked up, he found himself surrounded by the agents of the police. Beyond, curious passersby had stopped at the commotion.

“You’re coming with us,” one of the agents said in satisfaction. “A convict, clad like you are, and in this part of the city—you must have been spying on Master Brisset here to rob his shop after nightfall, eh?”

“Or perhaps he was just trying to fence stolen goods.” A boot nudged the little writing box that had fallen from his hands.

“Bring that along, we might need it. Not that there’s much doubt about what one of your sort was doing around here,” the first man scoffed. “Move along. The shop keepers won’t like your spectacle.”

Confused, Valjean allowed himself to be dragged to his feet. Did they not know who he was?

“Monsieur, there’s been a mistake,” he began humbly, but then a blow of the cudgel to his stomach drove the air from him.

Even as he groaned, another officer impatiently pushed him forward. “To the station-house with you. Maybe a judge will waste his time on your lies, but we’ve got no patience for that.”

After that incident, Valjean kept quiet. Bound as he was, he was dragged into a small alley and roughly shoved against a wall.

“Jean Valjean. We’ve got a witness who recognized you straight away. You’re an ex-convict, a galley-slave who broke parole.”

At the words, Valjean’s pounding heart skipped a beat. An ex-convict, they called him—a man whom they suspected of breaking parole. It meant that Javert had not been behind the arrest. It meant that he would not be locked up again, dragged away from Cosette to spend the rest of his life in misery.

“Monsieur,” he said respectfully, “if you will let me explain—”

“Silence,” the man said. Once more a cudgel struck, hitting his unprotected stomach so that he groaned and bent over. Another cudgel hit his back, so that he slumped against the wall.

What could he do? The men would not let him speak. To go to prison, to be locked behind bars, to have people watch as he was dragged to a carriage in chains, all the while hoping that in a few days’ time, Javert would find him in his cell—the thought was unbearable. How could he ever look at Cosette again? How could he go outside with her holding his hand, when any passerby might have seen him tremble beneath the cudgels, chained and dragged away like an animal?

“That’s him,” a new voice said, excitement and disdain mingling in the exclamation. “They called him Jean-the-Jack when I was stationed in Toulon, long ago. After nineteen years, he was released. He vanished soon after, but not before robbing a curé and a little Savoyard.”

Panting against the pain, Valjean raised his head. The man in the uniform of the gendarmes was unfamiliar. Could he have been a guard, twenty years ago? It was possible. The man seemed to be close to his fifties now, balding, but with a drooping mustache. Valjean did not recognize him—but there was no denying that the man had recognized him, though he seemed unaware of the events that had come to pass after he had left Toulon.

He had to be patient, Valjean told himself, even as the thought of chains and the misery of captivity made him shudder. It had to be borne, as so many other things had been. This evening, Javert would be alarmed to find him missing. In the morning, he would inquire with the police, and in another day, he would be led to the jail where they would put Valjean in the meantime. Javert would prove his purchase, or, if he had lost the papers, would send for the paperwork, and then Valjean would be released to Javert.

“He’s a right brute.” A small smile played on the lips of the gendarme. He kept his hand on his sword. “I saw him lashed four or five times. He has the body of a bull; the whip never discouraged him from trying to flee. But your flight’s over now, Valjean. Maybe I’ll see you flogged again for old sake’s time. Maybe I’ll do it myself. In the bagne, we let the convicts do the dirty work. But I think I’d like to try and take a piece out of your hide myself.”

“Shouldn’t he go into a cell while we decide what’s to be done with him?” one of the younger officers inquired.

As Valjean watched helplessly, he saw one of his seniors nudge him.

“Eh, a beating won’t do that one any harm. Probably won’t learn his lesson, but it doesn’t hurt to try and teach him manners, I say.” The officer waited for a moment, then added, slowly, “Of course, this isn’t a matter of the gendarmes.” 

His stomach contracting even as he heaved for breath, Valjean watched as the gendarme hesitated. A moment later, he reached into his pocket. Valjean heard the telltale sound of coins dropped into the officer’s hands.

“He’s all yours.” The officer gestured.

A moment later, the hands gripping his shoulders released him so that Valjean swayed, nearly dropping to his knees. He was still winded from the cudgels driving the breath from his stomach, but now a new, cold wave of dread was rising within him. Should he now be flogged, and for no reason but that there was a man here desiring to do so?

Even though he knew there was no justice to be had in a station-house for his kind, Valjean tried to straighten as much as was possible, appealing to the junior officer who had protested against their plans at first.

“I’m no runaway convict,” he spoke softly and fearfully. “I was sold, I’m—”

“You will be silent!” Again a cudgel came cruelly down on his arm, forcing another groan from him as he swayed beneath the impact.

Then there was a sound he remembered all too well. It made him shudder now to hear it.

The gendarme had opened the buckle of his belt. Slowly, he was pulling the leather free, the blood in Valjean’s veins turning to ice.

“Sounds like you need that lesson.” There was a gleam in the man’s eyes that seemed strangely familiar. Bile rose up at the back of Valjean’s throat. Was that not how Javert had looked at him once?

“I’m going to enjoy this,” the man murmured, eyes dark and cold as he looked Valjean up and down.

Terrified, his heart pounding in his chest, Valjean found himself trapped once more. If he raised a hand against them, he would not leave this place alive. And then, what would become of Cosette? His mouth dry, sick with shame at how the man stared at him, he returned the man’s gaze, praying that it would be over quickly, and that the gendarme would be satisfied with his shame.

Then the door to the station-house flew open, and in burst Javert.

Javert’s hair was in disarray, his hat nearly toppling from his head as the tails of his coat billowed behind him like an unfurling flag of black. His eyes blazed with fury, his face filled with the terrible rage of an avenging angel.

“Halt!” he shouted as the man gathered in the station-house froze.

The senior officer was the first to stir, raising his pistol at him.

“I am Inspector Javert,” Javert declared, his eyes never leaving Valjean’s, “and you will unhand that man immediately.”

For a moment, the men were silent. All Valjean could hear was the roar of blood in his ears.

Javert had come to his rescue. Javert had arrived in time. Now all would be well—Valjean could bear the shame of the arrest. Certainly, if anyone who knew him had seen it happen, it could be explained easily: a mistake, a man who seemed to recognize him but who realized his fault at the station-house, a simple thing. And then, the streets had not been busy, and this was not so close to home that a neighbor would have walked this street by chance…

“He’s a runaway convict,” one of the officers said. “What business is this of yours?”

Javert bared his teeth in a wild grin. “Does he look like a convict to you? The man is a slave. And I want you to take your hands of my property.”

Even now, a shudder of misery ran through Valjean at Javert’s proclamation, although he knew it was the only thing that would save him. But to be reminded that despite the idyll of what Javert had called Valjean’s mad fantasy, he would never be free, that no matter how gently Javert might touch him, in the eyes of the law, he would never be more than Javert’s slave…

“I think you’re trying to play a game with us,” the gendarme said slowly, giving Javert a challenging look.

Javert straightened, eyes blazing. “Are you calling me a liar?”

In misery, Valjean could do nothing but watch as Javert strode towards him. He tried to remind himself that in this little back alley, they were out of sight—though even now, there might be an audience gathering behind him.

The sun was low behind Javert’s back. For a moment, he looked like a demon striding towards Valjean: an outline of black shadow at the center of the sun.

Then they faced each other. Despite himself, Valjean’s muscles were straining against the handcuffs—to no avail, and yet the animal instinct of flight was too powerful to resist.

Javert did not speak to reassure him. Instead, he took hold of Valjean’s shirt, and ripped it with one brutal, powerful motion.

A groan escaped Valjean. He trembled. On his breast, the _J_ burned into his skin ached again, a dull pain throbbing in time to his heartbeat. For a moment, the shame was too great to be so exposed in public once more, his legs threatening to give in.

“There it is. My brand on his skin. He was branded when I purchased him in Toulon, in 1823. This man’s name is Jean Valjean, and he is my slave.”

There was a darkness encroaching on Valjean’s vision, and a dull roar in his ears. When he dared to raise his eyes at last, he found that Javert had turned away from him.

And there, behind Javert, several people had stopped to watch what was taking place in this alley.


	66. Chapter 66

Fury blazed brightly within Javert as he met the eyes of the gathered men. Indignation warred with a fear he dared not acknowledge—to show his fear for Valjean would be a weakness, might—perhaps—even give away the nature of their relationship.

“You will let him go immediately. The man is mine and does my bidding.”

“Is that so.” The gendarme gave him a derisive smile. “He’s buying little mother-of-pearl writing boxes in your name? He’s got you duped. Look at him. He’s dressed like a gentleman, talks like a man of money—”

“He was buying a writing box in my name. For my daughter,” Javert said coldly. “And it is of absolutely no concern of yours how I dress this man, or on what sort of errands I send him.”

Two of the policemen were muttering amongst themselves, finally taking a few steps backward, as if eager to escape the altercation. They did not make it far; at that end of the alley, several people had stopped to watch the proceedings, and now voices arose from that corner.

Javert ignored the goings-on, focusing on the gendarme before him.

“If that’s how you treat him, no surprise he causes such trouble.” The gendarme’s mouth twisted. “He was about to attack us. Clearly you are unable to keep the brute under control.”

“That was not what I saw when I came into the alley.” Rage bubbled up inside Javert once more at the blatant lie. With difficulty, he swallowed his anger. Instead, he half turned towards Valjean. He did not dare to meet his eyes. Instead, Javert roughly fisted a half of the torn shirt. “And you will kneel while I’m dealing with you.”

He could feel the shiver that ran through Valjean’s powerful body. For a moment, Javert feared that Valjean would speak out in protest. Instead, slowly, Valjean sank to his knees by his side. Only then did Javert dare to look at him, finding him pale and shaken, eyes averted and the strong neck bent in an obedience Javert had not seen since their days in Montreuil.

That was good, Javert told himself. It was as it should be. Valjean was the very image of an obedient slave. There would be no more trouble now—legally, it was Javert’s prerogative to punish his slave.

“There. He does not misbehave. He knows the lash awaits him if he does.” Satisfied, Javert gave the gendarme a look of challenge. “Now you will step aside and let me return to my business.”

“He raised his hand against me.” The gendarme’s words were icy. “I demand satisfaction for that. That brute needs to be punished. If you can’t keep your own slave in check, perhaps you shouldn’t be allowed to handle one.”

“You forget yourself, monsieur,” Javert snapped. “The man is mine, and he will remain mine. I will punish him as I see fit, without your interference or advice.”

“Come now, Javert,” the senior officer said. “This is getting too public for my liking. Let your man have the belt—what difference does it make? It won’t hurt, in any case; you know his kind—”

“That man will not lie hands on my slave.” Javert drew himself up to his full height. “No, even though I understand he paid you for that pleasure.”

“Come now,” the officer said again, clearly angered by Javert’s observation, so that for a moment, Javert feared that he had said the wrong thing.

It was true that he had observed an agent of the police accepting a bribe—and yet, it had been a bribe to punish a slave: an inconsequential matter in the daily process of policing an entire city.

Even so, the injustice seemed too large to not call attention to it. Javert knew that the law was on his side. There was no good reason for this argument, nor for the officer to support the gendarme’s demands.

And yet, Javert was on his own—and Valjean was on his knees, helpless, protected by nothing but Javert’s status.

For a moment, the wrongness of the situation seemed insurmountable. How could it be that here, right before Javert, an officer should have been bribed and an injustice committed—and by the very men who, like him, had no duty but that of upholding the authority of the state?

It was infuriating, and Javert would have liked nothing more than to deny the men’s demands, to give his patron’s name and see if these men wanted to bring the matter to the secretary of the prefect of police himself.

Nevertheless, Valjean was still on his knees by his side. Valjean, whose eyes had been filled with horror—whose greatest nightmare had to have become reality when Javert himself had ripped his shirt, baring his shame to the men watching.

Still, it could not be helped. And for that reason, he would be forgiven, Javert thought, not daring to look at Valjean. It had been the only way he could think of to save Valjean.

“You’ll let me leave now, and I’ll forget this ever happened,” he said, swallowing his fury. “Inspector, return the man’s money. And rest assured that my slave will learn his lesson by my hand. He’s tasted the lash enough to know that I’m not a merciful man.”

After a moment and some angry murmuring, the coins were indeed returned. And yet, a second later, still staring into Javert’s eyes, the gendarme threw them onto the ground without care.

“No. That slave deserves to be whipped, and given his behavior, I’m not at all certain you can be trusted to accomplish that.”

“How dare you,” Javert began, then caught himself, for now the other agents of police stepped towards the gendarme’s side.

Javert’s mouth was dry. He could taste bile on his tongue. His shirt beneath his coat was soaked through with cold sweat. Even though all of his instincts told him to cling to the truth and the law, he began to realize that here, in this alley, these things might not be enough to save Valjean.

The gendarme smiled slowly. “Who knows if you’re really who you say you are. You could be lying, for all I know. Why don’t we take the galley-slave along to the station-house? He’ll taste the lash there—and await you in a cell, until you return with the paperwork to prove that you speak the truth.”

Javert clenched his jaw until his teeth ground against each other. For a moment, he feared that Valjean would try and bolt, making everything worse.

He could not have Valjean run. It would give the gendarme a reason to do as he had said he would. Likewise, Javert could not accept his offer. He could not deliver Valjean to the shame of being led through this quarter with his shirt ripped and his brand exposed. These streets were too close to Saint-Sulpice. Someone might see.

And then, to have Valjean arrested and whipped in broad daylight, and to have to retrieve him from the station-house as his slave, might call enough attention to them that rumors would spread even to their neighbors. Valjean would not be able to live with such a thing. He would run again—perhaps rightly so.

Javert straightened. Drawing on more than half a lifetime of experience at staring down criminals, he looked at the gendarme, whiskers bristling and teeth bared in the smile of the tiger.

“You doubt my arm, monsieur? I tell you, you will not lay hands on my possession. But punished he must be, I agree as far as that. I will do it myself. Let us go to the station-house then—quietly, if you please, for you have already caused enough of a commotion.”

“No. Do it here, if you do it at all,” the man replied. His eyes were fever-bright, and Javert could see a thin sheen of sweat at his brow.

A memory stirred in him, followed by queasy revulsion. He had seen that look before in the eyes of other men.

No, that gendarme would not lie hands on Valjean. Javert would spare him that. He had to spare him that, even if it meant…

“Against the wall,” Javert said roughly as he gripped Valjean’s torn shirt, hauling him up by it and pushing him towards the wall.

Valjean made a soft sound as he was pressed against the wall, but he did not resist—not even when Javert pulled the shreds of his torn shirt from him, baring the scars on his back to their audience.

Javert swallowed down his sickness. He turned to give the man another cold look. “Tell me again that I’m too lenient. He knows the taste of the whip well.”

The gendarme did not smile, even though the brightness in his eyes had increased as he studied the lines on Valjean’s back. Javert did not allow himself to drop his eyes to judge the state of his trousers.

“But those are old,” the man said mockingly. “If it’s true what you say, he’ll barely even remember touch of the lash after such a long time.”

Biting back a furious response, Javert turned to Valjean. The back before him rose and fell, muscles moving beneath scarred skin. A map of crisscrossing lines of white spread on the canvas framed by shoulders and Valjean’s trousers.

Years had passed since that moment in the shed in Pontoise. Javert had not even thought of it in a long time now. The memory returned unbidden: Valjean’s naked body gleaming with sweat, trembling in his bonds. Valjean’s cries. The way he had shuddered when afterward, Javert had cleaned his wounds, afraid and in pain, but helpless in his chains.

Javert remembered the heat in his own blood as he wielded the whip, the triumph at having Valjean, who had humiliated him by his escape, at last at his mercy once more.

The memory was as bright as fresh blood as Javert reached out to trace the lines that he had seared into Valjean’s back with his own hand. Dimly, he could hear the sound of heavy breathing. For a moment, the world seemed to turn before his eyes. Was that the sound of his own breathing, or did it come from the man behind him?

Javert did not dare to turn. Instead, moving slowly and carefully to hide the trembling of his fingers, he followed a pale welt that was shorter and broader than the other scars. This one was the length of a finger, close to Valjean’s spine. It had not been left by a whip, but by a knife.

“You remember this one, don’t you?” he said, resting his finger on it as Valjean trembled and remained silent.

Just so he had trembled years ago, when the tables had turned and turned again, when Javert had been in Valjean’s power, and yet Javert had been the one holding the knife, cutting into Valjean’s flesh.

Did Valjean remember too? Javert prayed that he did. He did not dare to say more, not with both of them so closely watched. But perhaps, regardless of what was to come, Valjean would remember that one moment of trust between them.

Javert stepped back. He reached down to unbuckle his belt. Slowly, he pulled it free, swallowing back saliva. He could not afford being sick. For Valjean’s sake, he would have to give them what they wanted. Better it was him than a stranger who desired Valjean’s suffering out of some perverse delight.

Behind him, a sudden commotion arose.

“Down with the slavery dear to the bourgeoisie!” a voice shouted.

Javert hesitated for a moment, his hand tight around his belt. Before him, Valjean was breathing rapidly, pressing himself against the wall with his face averted, his back bared to Javert.

“You will hold still,” he told Valjean roughly. “If you move, I’ll add another dozen.”

Again the cry arose at the end of the alley. “Down with the bourgeois slavers!” 

Javert’s hand clenched around the belt. For the span of one heartbeat he dared to believe that the protesters would interrupt. Surely the commotion would upset the men who should be on his side of the law, enough that he could slip away with promises to deal with the matter privately. Or perhaps, these cries of revolution would attract further agents of the police, and with a gathering crowd, the group of men would realize that they could not keep pressuring him…

But when Javert turned, he saw that his hopes were in vain. There were three protesters—students, perhaps. None of them possessed the distinctive head of gold that he suddenly remembered. Next to them, a small group of workingmen stood, joined by two gamins loitering against the wall of the alley, and by all appearances as entertained by the cries of the students as the prospect of a flogging.

These workingmen would not uphold the cause of the students. And three students stood no chance against the gathered agents and the gendarme.

With a nod, the senior officer sent his men towards the opening of the narrow alley. At the sight of their raised cudgels, the students chose retreat, leaving Javert with nothing but the memory of eyes staring at him with deep abhorrence, and the bitterness of what he was about to do.

He turned again. Valjean had not moved. Obediently, he stood against the wall of the alley, his powerful body bare, his muscles as tense as knots beneath his skin. How many times had he stood thus, awaiting his punishment in the bagne?

Perhaps chains would have made it easier for Valjean, but Javert did not trust the men who had forced him into this situation. He could only hope that Valjean was strong enough to bear what he was about to do.

Javert raised his hand and rested it against Valjean’s back. His skin was hot, already damp with perspiration. Beneath Javert’s touch, the raised ridges of old scar tissue shifted, covering the bunched muscles beneath.

“A dozen,” he said, hearing his own voice as if it was coming from far away. It sounded strange in his own ears, like the voice of a stranger. It was hard and inhuman, like a bronze bell, and brought with it the salt of the sea and the stench of a hundred men locked into the same salle.

Valjean shuddered beneath his touch. Javert took a step back, his stomach twisting as he stared at Valjean’s body, remembering that day in Pontoise. How heady that triumph had been; how hot his blood had rushed through his veins as he held victory in the palm of his hand!

And how Valjean had trembled, his body wet with sweat and blood. Was that truly the same man who had given himself to Javert so completely, whose bedroom was next to Javert’s and who fell asleep with his hair damp and soft against Javert’s shoulder?

It seemed impossible that they should be the same.

His mouth dry, Javert raised the belt.


	67. Chapter 67

The wall was hard. Here and there, the stone had crumbled. Near Valjean’s chin, half a brick was missing in the wall.

Valjean found himself staring at the hole in the stonework, listening to the roar of his blood in his ears. How often had he stood thus, bared and shamed before the merciless eyes of strangers? It should not fill him with such crushing terror, when he had borne so much worse.

And still, to be suddenly dragged back into a hell from which he had climbed with such difficulty; to bear the pain of the cudgels once more and hear that horrible _tu_ spit into his face like the slap of a hand; to stand bound and helpless before a public that gasped in horror at the monstrousness of him—all these things were impossible to bear for a man who had now thought himself twice escaped from such wretchedness, stepping into a paradise that consisted of sunlit gardens and a child’s laughter, and warmth shared beneath bed covers.

Valjean flinched when Javert’s hand rose from his skin. In vain did his bound hands twist; he could not break the handcuffs, and then, despite’s his body’s horror at what was to come, his mind knew well what Javert was trying to accomplish.

Javert was hoping to spare him a worse punishment in the only way that was left to him. The thought did not make the shame any easier to bear.

And then, with no further warning, Javert’s belt came down.

With a groan of agony, Valjean pressed himself against the wall, his eyes burning—more from humiliation and a helpless sense of betrayal than the pain, even though Javert had not gone easy on him.

The pain was bearable, he told himself—and compared to the whip he had known, the belt’s bite was a lesser evil. From a less experienced man, twelve lashes might not even break the skin.

But to stand in an alley, half naked, the brand on his chest exposed and his hands in irons, to have to kneel at Javert’s feet and swear obedience, to say _monsieur_ to the man whose scent and sweat clung to his sheets, and to tremble beneath the lash wielded by the same hand that had touched him so lovingly one night ago…

When the belt came down a second time, he wept. Tears streamed from his eyes, the wall rough against his cheek as he pressed himself to it, offering up a prayer to God above to be spared this torment.

Every lash he received was a slash of agony crossing his back. He flinched beneath them, the world half receding until he found himself trapped in some shadowy limbo where he saw the voices and faces of long ago: coarse men in the red blouse, the unbearable sun of the Toulon summer, the fetid air of the salle, the constant stink of salt and sweat. Valjean groaned against the wall, for a moment picturing himself surrounded by shadows: guards like cruel shades risen from the underworld, faceless demons with cruel hands that rained blows down on him, and the weight of chains dragging on him just as much as the suffocating awareness of the endless years of his sentence.

Then another blow fell, and with a gasp, he returned to himself.

His cheeks were wet. His back ached, almost as if Javert had taken a whip instead of a belt to him. But in the seconds before the next blow, he remembered where he was, and why he was suffering.

He could not move. Javert was being watched, just as they watched him. If they believed him suitably punished, they would let them go, and then…

His thoughts trailed off there, and then the belt fell down onto his back again. Pain exploded, hot and vicious.

Soon it would be done, some part of him whispered—and yet another part thought of what would come after with hollow despair. The house, the garden, the hours spent watching Cosette hunt butterflies, and the evenings spent in Javert’s company… what a strange dream they now seemed to him.

Had that paradise truly once been his? It appeared to him now that he beheld a gate closing, that the angel with the burning sword stepped forward to forever bar his way, the Garden of Eden in the Rue Plumet vanishing before him as he was enveloped by the shame of his wretchedness.

He cried out when the belt came down one more time, another furious blow that drew a line of red-hot fire across his skin, burning just as the branding iron had so long ago.

From a distance, he heard his sobs. The stone wall was digging into his cheek. His hands had clenched around the iron that held them bound, gripping so tightly that his fingers ached—but he had not moved. Throughout the torment, he had obediently held still, and as the haze of misery receded a little at last, his lips moved in a voiceless prayer of gratitude.

“There. It is done. Now I will leave, and I will take my slave with me, and we will consider this matter settled.”

Valjean shuddered again at the cold fury in Javert’s voice. It sent his blood running cold with terror before he remembered that it was not directed at him.

Javert had done all of this to protect him. Javert had sought to keep him from having to spend time in a cell, in the power of an officer who had shown no qualms at accepting a bribe from a man who would have taken delight in his torment.

At least Valjean had been spared that. At least it was over now, and they could go home…

But home was where Cosette was waiting. What right did a wretch like him have to set foot in that place, to pretend that he was a man like any other—and Javert allowing such folly with a smile, only to teach him the brutal truth of what he was with a whip in the street…?

“Come,” Javert said, his voice tight as he gripped Valjean’s arm.

Valjean obediently stumbled along to where he was led, confusedly holding out his hands when he was commanded to, shuddering as the handcuffs were unlocked.

“I take it that in the future, your slave will show better manners,” the smooth voice of the gendarme said.

“Without doubt,” Javert said curtly, and then Valjean found himself led away, still bare-chested and bleeding.

They found themselves stopped once more, Valjean watching, barely comprehending what was coming to pass, when one of the junior agents gestured towards Valjean’s purchases.

Without speaking a word, it was Javert who took hold of the small writing box and the two books that Valjean had acquired. Then he continued to walk past the gathered workingmen at the end of the alley, and Valjean had no choice but to follow along, every step agony. He could feel wetness trickling down his back. Javert had not been merciful; just as he had so often told Valjean, his hand had been heavy and strict with the belt.

Javert did not speak or turn to acknowledge Valjean. Likewise, he ignored the passersby that had watched the display. Where the alley opened onto the wider street that held the shops Valjean had patronized that day, he stopped the first carriage that approached.

Not daring to raise his head, aware of the eyes on him, Valjean waited behind Javert until the hackney-coach had come to a stop. Only a minute after they had left the alley, Valjean found himself climbing into the carriage, numb and still shivering. With an ominous sound, Javert closed the door behind them—and then the coach began to clatter off.

Valjean’s breath came in little gasps. He felt cold. His back seemed to burn; he forced himself to sit quietly, despite the way that every lurch of the carriage made the pain flare up.

And then, a heartbeat later, there was a hand on his forehead. He nearly shied away when he found Javert in front of him so suddenly, but managed to remind himself just in time that it was over, that this was Javert, that Javert would not harm him again.

“Good God, you’re as pale as a ghost,” Javert said, his voice tight. “And you’re cold. Here—”

He drew off his greatcoat and moved to wrap it around Valjean, but Valjean flinched back.

“Where are we going?” he asked, swallowing a pained moan.

“Where are we—where do you think?” Javert asked, and then suddenly, his hand was grasping Valjean’s, and when Valjean raised his head, he found Javert kneeling before him, despite the swaying of the carriage, peering into his face.

“We’re going home,” Javert said.

Slowly, his hand rose. Valjean watched as it hesitated. At last, it gently cupped his face, and Valjean could not suppress his flinch.

Javert’s throat worked. “Forgive me,” he said at last. His thumb stroked across the vulnerable skin beneath his eye, and Valjean remembered with sudden shame that he had cried when the belt had struck him.

“I hurt you.” Again Javert’s throat worked, as though he could not think of what to say.

And what was there to say, Valjean thought tiredly. In his misery, it seemed impossible that they should now go back to that place where he had been so happy.

“We can’t go home,” he said when Javert’s words finally filtered through the pain. “I can’t.”

“What!” Javert exclaimed, still touching Valjean’s face in a way that made him want to weep again. “You’re hurt; you’re not thinking clearly. We’re going home, and I will call a doctor.”

Valjean sat up straight at those words, dislodging Javert’s hand. “I cannot, and you won’t.”

His heart starting to race again as he imagined the shame of a stranger looking at his back, touching his bare body as though he were an animal to be sold off again. “I can't go home like this, I told you. Cosette can’t see me like this.”

“Good God,” Javert said, rising at last, his face pale. “Is that why? Do you truly think I would…?” He swallowed, then shook his head. “No. No, you can’t demand that from me. I did this to you. I’m the one who hurt you. To think I’d now… We are going home, Jean Valjean, whether you like that or not.”

“I won’t have her see me like this,” Valjean said in misery. “A room in an inn, for a night or two—”

“For God’s sake.” Javert’s jaw clenched. “Hate me; I deserve that. But you’ve suffered enough today. Stay in my room, if you must; I’ll tell mademoiselle that you were called away and will return in a day or two.”

Valjean drew in a shaky breath. For a moment, he imagined Cosette thinking him ill, tending to him and reading him books from a chair by his bed. What joy that would be…

And yet, it could not be. It was impossible to hide the nature of his wounds. He had to stay hidden until he could move without betraying the cause of his injury.

“If you will swear that no one will see me,” he said weakly.

“I swear it,” Javert said. Despite the swaying of the carriage, he rose and sat down next to Valjean. For a moment, he remained silent. Then, tentatively, Valjean felt a touch against his hair.

“I was… afraid.” The words spilling rough and desperate from Javert’s mouth. “I’ve never been afraid before in my life. But when I saw you there—when I saw the way that gendarme looked at you… I feared that if I let them take you away, they would hurt you. Worse than… worse than what I had to do.”

Valjean took a deep breath. “A dozen lashes of the belt is nothing compared to what I’ve known.”

“I know.” Javert was silent for a while.

Several minutes passed. The carriage was still rattling through the streets. Valjean’s back ached, the pain a fiery throb that seemed to pulse with every beat of his heart.

At last, Javert’s hand rose once more. This time, Valjean forced himself not to flinch when Javert reached out for him. With excruciating gentleness, Javert brushed a damp lock out of Valjean’s face.

“Forgive me,” he said again. “Forgive me.”

Valjean could not speak. There was a pressure behind his eyes. In despair, he swallowed against the rock that seemed stuck in his throat. In Toulon, he had not cried during nineteen years of torment. But now, with Javert’s hand touching his hair with a strange, helpless gentleness —the same hand that had raised a whip against him before, the same hand that had chained him, that today had raised the belt—Valjean found his body shaking again.

In shame, he raised his hands to hide his face, thinking once more of the strangers that had observed today’s events—strangers which could well live near the Rue Plumet, or go to Mass at Saint-Sulpice.

Javert’s thumb stroked along his cheek, his fingers threading into his hair. “If you can’t bear to look at me, I will go. I’ll get a room in an inn. But let me care for your wounds at least. Let me do what I can to—”

Ashamed, Valjean realized that his eyes were brimming with tears once more. His back still ached dully, and would continue to do so for a few more days. And yet, it was not the pain that made his eyes burn.

The shame of what had happened was too great. The awareness that the happiness he had found had been false and would be taken away from him weighed heavily on his shoulders. Had he never left the convent, he would be happy even now. Had he never allowed himself to dream of a life in their walled house in the Rue Plumet, a life with Cosette’s laughter and Javert’s embrace, he would be safe in the convent garden now, the brand forever hidden from view. He would have taken his shame with him into his grave, Cosette forever innocent and untouched by his past.

His shoulders shook. It was difficult to breathe past the crushing shame. The thought of returning to their home like this frightened him even now—and yet, even in his despair, he thought of Javert’s room and the familiar scent of the sheets on his bed with a sudden longing. Had he not been happy there? Had he not found a comfort he had thought he would never know again?

He could not remember moving, but all of a sudden, there was the rough brush of whiskers against his cheek, and the softer fabric of Javert’s coat against his face. He struggled to draw in a breath, his chest aching as though bound with iron rings. And then, tears began to run down his face, and he held on to Javert’s coat, shaking with a misery he could not bear, while Javert in turn held on to him, as tightly as if he were still afraid that Valjean might flee once more.


	68. Chapter 68

As the carriage clattered through familiar streets, Javert straightened.

“Toussaint will be at the market with mademoiselle,” he said. “But it’s noon, and the street might be busy. You will have to wear my coat; if we button it, no one will see that you wear nothing beneath.”

“And what of you? To go out without your great-coat,” Valjean began.

Javert made an impatient gesture. “We’ll hurry inside. It doesn’t matter. Perhaps it was stolen from me; in any case, I have no desire to indulge idle chatter, and if the neighbors want to question Toussaint about my lack of coat this afternoon, let them.”

Valjean still looked very pale. Javert helped him into his greatcoat as the carriage turned the corner into the Rue Plumet.

“Can you bear it?” he asked softly.

Valjean did not acknowledge his question, his hands moving mechanically to fasten the buttons. After a moment, noticing how Valjean’s fingers trembled, Javert began to help him.

By the time the carriage came to a stop before the gate, Valjean looked as respectable as it was possible for a man to look who had just been severely beaten. Javert paid the driver, forcing himself to offer no support to Valjean, who in turn moved slowly, but without giving voice to any discomfort. Only when Javert closed the gate behind them did he sigh.

“There, you see,” he murmured, giving Javert a wan smile when he hastened to Valjean’s side. “This is why I argued for the need of a secret entrance.”

Surprised, Javert bit back a bark of laughter. The words were reassuring after Valjean’s misery in the carriage; even so, Javert did not linger. Valjean walked by his side without complaint, but Javert could sense his pain in the way he breathed: quick, shallow gulps of air, Valjean’s brow pale and damp with sweat.

Only when they were inside did Valjean groan and show a sign of the agony he was in. He trembled when Javert peeled the coat from his back. Blood was still seeping from the cuts. The coat had irritated the wounds, but that could not have been avoided. Two of his lashes had broken the skin, and Javert felt a new wave of guilt rise up inside him as he looked at them. _Had_ it been necessary? Could he not have gone easier on Valjean?

And yet, even now the thought of leaving Valjean in the power of the gendarme, if only for a few hours, sickened him. He could not know what the man might have done, but he had possessed that familiar look of a man who would only be satisfied by blood.

And Javert had given him what he had desired…

Fortunately, the house was as empty as Javert had anticipated. He led Valjean up into his own bedroom, helping him lie down on his bed. Then he gathered warm water, a bottle of wine, a soft cloth and the remnants of a pot of salve. Valjean had acquired it when Javert had returned with a gash in his arm from an assignment several weeks ago. Back then, Javert had protested the expense; now he was glad of it.

When he returned, Valjean was as he had left him: spread out on his bed, his head turned away from Javert. His back was a mess of red. More blood had trickled from the two welts where Javert had hit hard enough to break the skin.

Light fell in through his window. The curtains were drawn back; it was still close to noon. Javert was not habitually in his room at this time of day. Distantly, he remembered that he would have to send a note to the station-house. He had been trying to trail a forger who had been seen by an informant; it was only chance that had brought him close to the shop where Valjean had been taken.

Chance—or Providence, perhaps. Perhaps on this day, he had been granted an opportunity to prove himself to Valjean: to show that despite the cruel things he had once spoken, he desired Valjean willing, and happy, not broken and bleeding at his feet.

If it had been a test, then certainly Javert had failed it today.

He stared at Valjean’s back once more, something within him turning and twisting as he thought of the fierce satisfaction he had felt when he had wielded that whip for the first time. Then, slowly, he moved closer, placing his tray on the nightstand. At the sound, Valjean tensed but did not turn.

“Are you awake?” Javert asked. “You should drink this.”

With obvious reluctance, Valjean turned his head. He was still very pale, his hair damp with sweat, his eyes bloodshot.

Javert poured a glass of wine, then held it out to Valjean. He did not move when Valjean pulled himself up in obvious pain, waiting as Valjean emptied the glass.

“Another,” Javert said and took it from him to refill it. “Then you can sleep.”

Obediently, Valjean accepted the glass again. Javert fingers twitched, but he forced himself to remain still as Valjean swallowed the wine. After Valjean was done, he lowered himself down onto the bed once more, his back bared to Javert’s eyes.

“This will hurt, but once I’m done, I will let you sleep,” Javert said.

Valjean did not react to his words. After a moment, Javert dipped the cloth into the warm water. He hesitated, then sat down by Valjean’s side.

Very gently, he pressed the cloth to his cheek, wiping sweat and tears from his skin. With careful hands, he brushed Valjean’s tangled locks out of his face. Then, Javert moved on to Valjean’s back. Blood had dried in rivulets, and he cleaned it away as gently as he could. Valjean remained silent, although he could feel him tense beneath his hands.

The cuts were not deep, at least, the belt not as terrible an instrument as the whip--but even so, to look at Valjean’s back beneath his hands now brought on a new, strange wave of horror. How many times had he looked at such a sight? Javert could not say. He had seen hundreds of men punished, hundreds of backs looking worse than this. He himself had done worse to Valjean. Even so, now that he tried to wipe the sweat and blood from Valjean’s back, it was impossible to suppress the wave of revulsion and anger within him.

Valjean groaned when he came close to one wound, his entire body shuddering like that of a spooked horse, even though he obediently held himself still.

Javert stopped for a moment. Hesitantly, he reached out to rest one hand on Valjean’s shoulder.

“I’m nearly done,” he said. He thought again of Valjean’s face leaning against his shoulder in the carriage, the way Valjean’s body had shaken.

What comfort did he have to offer now—Javert, the man who had hurt him?

He swallowed, staring at the muscles bunching beneath Valjean’s skin as Valjean remained silent and tense. No further sounds of pain escaped him when Javert washed away what sweat and grime stuck to the other cut the belt had opened.

He had not taken his hand away from Valjean’s shoulder; Valjean had not shaken it off. Surely that was a good sign?

When Javert was done, he exhaled, unable to tear his eyes from the crisscrossing lines of red. Valjean was still tense; Javert tightened his fingers around the hard muscles of his shoulder, trying to offer what comfort he could.

“I can go to the apothecary and fetch you some laudanum,” he said quietly. “Once you have slept through a day or two, these will have started to heal—”

“No,” Valjean said. “No laudanum. No doctor.”

Javert clenched his jaw. “I will say it is for me, that I was wounded in a recent—”

“No,” Valjean said again, his voice distant but firm. “No laudanum. And you will tell Cosette that I have left on some business?”

“As you say,” Javert agreed, hands clenching helplessly as he looked down at Valjean. He could not make himself speak; there were a hundred things in his head, a strange roar of excuses and denials and pleas, and all he could think about even now was the way Valjean had shuddered, obedient and silent, as he had pushed him against the wall.

“If you want me to leave, I will,” Javert finally said in a quiet voice. “I could take a room in an inn, but I’d rather not leave you alone. I will stay in the study, if you don’t mind, and—”

Valjean drew in an audible breath.

“Javert,” he said, his voice small and uncertain. “I don’t—I don’t want you to leave.”

Valjean’s hand curled on the sheets, and Javert stared at it for a moment in astonishment, taking note of the white hair that grew near his knuckles and the calluses of past hard work.

Then, hastily, he reached out for it. His knees felt shaky; he ended up kneeling by the side of the bed, Valjean’s knuckles pressed to his lips before he reached out to touch Valjean’s hair with trembling fingers.

“Then I will stay,” Javert said, the words rough with unshed tears.

Valjean looked very tired, and very old as he rested on the bed, his eyes and mouth lined by lines of pain which Javert now realized he had not seen in years.

“Sleep,” Javert said, swallowing against the emotion in his throat. “Sleep. I’ll stay.”

Hesitantly, his hand moved through Valjean’s hair. It was white, and very fine; Javert had never truly paid attention to it before, but as he awkwardly stroked it, it felt as soft as silk beneath his fingers. Again and again, he drew his fingers through it, trying to be gentle, watching as Valjean’s eyes closed, although his body remained tense beneath his hands. Yet he did not speak out against the caress, and Javert, who did not know what else to offer, kept stroking slowly, awkwardly, remaining on his knees next to the bed until at last, Valjean relaxed into sleep beneath his hand.

Several hours later, when Cosette and Toussaint had returned from the market and Valjean’s message had been delivered, Javert retired to his room with a cup of broth and some bread, claiming to be unwell.

Such behavior was so uncharacteristic for him that a wide-eyed Toussaint had asked no questions but given him what he had demanded, reassuring him that nothing and no one would disturb his room.

In his bed, Valjean was still asleep. The wounds had scabbed over, the bruises on his back turning dark. His hair still gleamed with the same venerable white in the light of the setting sun.

Asleep, there was something very vulnerable about Valjean. The powerful body was relaxed, taut muscles loose. But even so, there were still lines of pain around his mouth, and when Javert sat down on the bed by his side, Valjean’s eyes blinked open immediately, his shoulders tensing with instinctive fear before he saw that it was Javert.

“How do you feel?” Javert asked quietly. “I’ve delivered your message. Cosette seemed displeased, but asked no further questions.”

“Thank you,” Valjean said. He raised a hand to wipe at his eyes.

“Here. You should eat something.” Awkward, Javert broke off some of the bread and dunked it into the broth. Then he offered it to Valjean, who watched him for a moment from unreadable eyes before his lips parted and he took the bread from Javert’s fingers.

Heat rose to Javert’s cheeks. To distract himself, he tore off another chunk and dipped it into the broth, then held it out once more. A drop dripped onto his knee; he disregarded it.

Again Valjean watched him. Then, after a moment, he took the bread from his fingers. They did not stop until the bread was gone. Now, at last, Valjean gave him a small smile as Javert looked at what remained of the broth in the cup in his hands. Carefully, Valjean sat up.

“I can feed myself,” he said with a small smile. There was something tentative in the way he looked at Javert.

Javert could not quite say what Valjean was asking for; even so, he gave him the cup and then watched as Valjean drank what was left.

“Are you hungry? Would you like more? Perhaps some chicken,” Javert began.

Valjean shook his head. “Thank you. It’s enough for now.”

Javert swallowed, staring at his hands, uncertain what to offer now. After a moment, when Valjean held out the cup to him and he returned it to the nightstand, his eyes fell onto the pot of salve.

“The wounds are no longer bleeding. Let me put the salve on you, and then you can have more wine and go back to sleep.”

Valjean inclined his head.

Hastily, Javert grabbed hold of the salve and sat down behind Valjean. He scooped up some of the thick ointment, which released a sharp, herbal smell. Beneath his fingers, Valjean’s skin seemed to ripple as he shuddered, although he held himself perfectly still.

Slowly and carefully, Javert made certain to cover every welt his hands had left with the salve. Beneath his touch, Valjean’s skin was hot and tender.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he said.

Valjean remained silent, and Javert swallowed. Lines of old scar tissues shifted and moved as Valjean tensed, and Javert found himself staring at them, wondering if today’s events would leave new scars.

He drew in a breath when his fingers found the old, deep scar the knife had left when he had cut open the infected wound on Valjean’s back. Again he swallowed, his hands trembling as he touched it. Beneath him, Valjean shifted now, another ripple moving across his back. Then Valjean sat up, his face weary but determined.

“You asked me if I remember that scar,” he said. “I did. I do.”

Javert looked down at his fingers, gleaming with the salve. He flexed them helplessly, then closed his eyes. What apology could he offer for what he had done? There was none.

“I’m sorry,” he said regardless, the words coming out in a jumble, rough and harsh, like sharp stones spilling from his throat. “I’m sorry. I was afraid when I saw you there. I was afraid they’d take you from me. That they’d hurt you.”

“I know,” Valjean said after a moment.

When Javert finally opened his eyes, he found Valjean pale, but still determined.

“I’ve had worse, isn’t that true? Even from you, I’ve had worse.”

Perhaps it had been meant as a jest, but the words made Javert flinch and Valjean hunch, as if to protect himself from an imaginary attack even now.

Wearily, Valjean raised a hand to rub at his eyes. “I don’t want to talk,” he continued after a moment. “I just want to sleep. But I do remember that scar, Javert. And I want… I don’t want you to leave.”

Silent and overwhelmed, Javert nodded. Hastily, he then poured another glass of wine and held it out to Valjean. Valjean met his gaze as he emptied it, his face lined with pain, eyes luminous with a distant sadness that Javert had not seen in a long time. Then he returned the glass to Javert’s hand, his mouth tensing with pain as he settled down onto the bed once more.

“Stay,” Valjean said again after a few minutes had passed, his voice already soft with sleep, and Javert found himself nodding, although he knew Valjean could not see it.

“I will.”


	69. Chapter 69

It was very early when Valjean woke. He blinked against the darkness. From behind the curtain, there was already a soft gleam of light heralding the approaching dawn. In this dim twilight, he held himself still, breathing calmly.

Little by little, memory filtered back in. In his dreams, he had rested on a bed of planks; now, he felt the softness of a mattress and sheets beneath him. The air smelled clear, green like their garden and the dew gathering on grass, and not of salt and the sweat and grime of a hundred men.

The scent that clung to his pillow was familiar nevertheless. It was a scent he knew well—a faint hint of sweat, snuff and musk, overlaid with the lavender Toussaint kept in the linen cupboard to keep moths away.

It was the scent of one certain man, which had come to mean comfort and closeness—but even so, it was not the scent of the man Valjean had seen in his dreams.

Tiredly, he shifted and turned his head. Even now, the face of Boucard, who had held him through similar nights, receded in his mind. Instead, he found himself looking down at Javert.

Javert, who had used his own belt to punish him so cruelly.

Javert, who had seen no other way to save him.

A whirlpool of confusing emotions arose within him. An old fear was tearing at him, bidding him to flee. Yet at the same time, there was the instinctual longing for the only comfort he had even known in similar situations: the embrace of Javert’s arms.

For long minutes, Valjean looked down at him, the forbidding features that were so stern in life now strangely vulnerable in sleep. At last, he reached out to smooth back the bristling whiskers. The fearsome mouth that could speak such cruel commands was slack, and Valjean thought of how warm and soft it could be on his skin.

And still something held him back from waking Javert.

Half an hour might have passed before Javert stirred. Valjean was still watching him when Javert’s eyes blinked open. For a long moment, they gazed at each other. Then Javert reached out, his hand running up Valjean’s bare arm.

“You're cold. You should go back to sleep,” Javert mumbled. “Do you need anything? More wine?”

Silently, Valjean shook his head. He was still staring into Javert’s sleepy eyes. Javert’s hand was warm on his skin, and slowly, the distant shades of his dreams sank back into the mist of the past they had resurfaced from.

“No. Just stay here,” he said softly, and Javert, after hesitating for a moment, trailed up his hand to lightly touch his neck.

Valjean allowed himself to be drawn forward. When Javert pulled the cover back up over him, another tremor ran through Valjean’s body; despite Javert’s obvious care, even the light touch hurt.

But Javert’s hand still rested gently against his nape, the rough tips of his fingers familiar, and Valjean in turn rested his head against Javert’s shoulder.

It took a while until he fell asleep, but he was content to rest, Javert’s body reassuringly warm and firm beneath him. He pushed all memories aside, allowing himself to sink deeper and deeper into this most primal of comforts: warm skin against his own, arms holding him, the sensation of breath against his skin. For so long, this had been the only relief he had known in the darkness of the galleys.

When he woke again a few hours later, the sun had fully risen, and it was light outside.

Javert was awake, but had not stirred from his side. His hand was still touching him, reassuring in its weight and warmth. His fingers were very gentle as they drew slowly through the hair at his nape.

For a few minutes, Valjean allowed himself to enjoy the sensation. Then, at last, when it could no longer be put off, he stirred, biting back a groan at the pain when he sat up.

Javert’s hand had fallen away. For a moment, it rested on the sheet between them.

Then Javert sat as well. “How are you today? I can go down for breakfast. Toussaint and Cosette might already be out to the market.”

Valjean took a deep breath, taking account of the pains of his body.

The welts on his back burned—but the pain was bearable. And he was fortunate: no guard would drive him to work today. If he could simply rest for another day or two, he would be able to return from his made-up journey, and Cosette would be none the wiser. He could even return today, and perhaps pretend that he had caught the malady that had laid Javert up.

“Better,” he said quietly. In silence, he studied Javert, until Javert averted his face and stood to draw the curtain back.

Sunlight spilled into the room. Javert opened the window. A breeze made the curtain move. Outside, birds were singing. Otherwise, both garden and house were quiet.

Valjean took a deep breath. He felt strangely unsettled—like a boat that had become unmoored, lost at sea, or like a man who had felt the earth tremble beneath him. Had he not felt this sensation before? Once, long ago, it had seemed to him that the fabric of the earth had been split as if by a mighty sword, a blinding light spilling through, and that there was only the choice to become the greatest of villains, or a man better even than a saint.

The sensation he had felt yesterday was not so different to that day long ago, although it had not cut as deep. It was not the earth that had been rent. It was a simple thing, truly, that had been cut.

His trust.

“Javert,” he said softly. He held out his hand.

When Javert sat down again by his side, he gripped hold of Javert’s hand, tightening his fingers around it.

It was this hand that had wielded the belt. He had heard Javert loosen it. He had felt this hand rip his shirt and force him to his knees.

Now Valjean drew this hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to it, gently and reverently, forcing himself to think of how this same hand had once cut a splinter out of his back, returning the knife even though he could have used it to wound him. It was this same hand that had touched him with such gentleness all through the night.

“I could eat,” he said after he had released Javert’s hand. “But first—will you kiss me?”

There had been a strange, quiet tension between them since the events of the past day. At moments the shame had been so strong that Valjean had thought of nothing but of how he would take Cosette and run, as soon as he had a chance. But now that he had known the comfort of Javert’s warmth once more, that thought, too, had receded, and seemed nearly as nightmarish as being stripped and whipped in public.

Should he return now to constant loneliness and fear? At his age, having suffered as he did, did he not deserve this quiet joy they had found, removed from the world in their small house and garden?

He would leave it all behind in a heartbeat if Cosette’s safety demanded it. But as long as there was a chance to return to what happiness they had known before, he wanted to cling to it for as long as he could.

“Are you certain?” Javert demanded hoarsely. The words were raw, and when Valjean studied him, he found that Javert’s eyes were red-rimmed as well, as though he had wept during the night.

“Yes. I am certain,” Valjean said simply. He made himself smile when Javert touched his face. The smile already came easier. Perhaps that was all that was needed—like a horse scared by the whip, it would take some days of gentle touches and quiet words. But it could be done.

Javert’s thumb gently drew along his cheek, and then his lips touched Valjean’s. The kiss was gentle, almost chase, Javert’s lips warm against Valjean’s. Slowly, little by little, Valjean found himself relaxing into the familiar embrace.

Javert’s other hand came up and cupped his face. Valjean sighed, his arm slipping around Javert’s neck, and like this, they remained for long moments.

When they finally drew apart, Valjean found himself flushed with heat, a smile lingering on his lips that at last felt real.

“I still want this. I still want you,” he said, reaching out to smooth back a strand of Javert’s hair.

How dear all these things were to him now: the bristling sensation of Javert’s whiskers scratching against his cheek, the sharp eyes glancing at him from beneath that imperious brow, the large hands whose lines and scars he knew so well.

At his touch, Javert swallowed. “Would you let me love you, after what I’ve done?”

Valjean considered the question seriously for a moment, then nodded. Even now, shades of terror reared up in his mind at an unexpected touch or movement—but already, these shades seemed to sink back down into the darkness from which they had sprung.

“Yes. And sooner rather than later,” he murmured with a quirk of his lips. “So you are willing.”

Javert huffed a surprised laugh, then rested his forehead against Valjean’s, his fingers returning to draw through Valjean’s hair.

“Wait until you’re no longer hurting.”

Things were better after that.

Much of the past day’s horror became more and more distant, like a nightmare that he had dreamed, and which lost all substance in the light of day. To look at Javert’s hands no longer brought up terrifying memories, even though he felt a sudden relief when he found a charred remnant of what had been Javert’s belt in the fireplace two days later.

His back still ached a little, but he could walk without showing any pain. To Cosette, he had simply returned from one of his mysterious trips, and had then spent much time in his and Javert’s study, claiming an attack of the same illness that had made Javert keep to his room before.

Everything was as it had been. Everything—with the exception of the old fear that had reared its ugly head once more, and which now made him hunch his shoulders when he walked through the garden by Javert’s side, flinching when he heard the distant voice of one of their neighbors carried on the wind.

“Perhaps we should move,” he shamefully said to Javert one day a week later.

“Move where? And why? Good God, you cannot keep scaring me so; no, not this time. Not without good reason.”

Valjean swallowed painfully, his face turning towards the gate again where just at that moment, an officer from the garrison happened to be riding past. The uniform made him shudder, even though it was not the uniform of the gendarmes. Still, was he not less than a man in the eyes of all servants of the state? Would not that officer hunt him down with as much pleasure as that gendarme, should he know the truth?

“The truth, Jean Valjean, is that you are mine,” Javert said, his face pale. “They have no power over you. Not by the words of the law. That this did not keep them from…” He fell silent, his throat working. Finally, with obvious reluctance, he said. “The law failed you. Or perhaps it failed me. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it appears I cannot trust the servants of the law.”

“But you would trust the law itself that made you mark me so?” Valjean reached out for Javert’s hand. He took hold of it and pressed it to his chest, where his heart was racing in sudden turmoil.

Javert stared at him, breathing heavily. For a moment, it seemed as if he would speak—but then he pulled his hand away, clutching it to his chest as though it had been burned. His eyes hooded, he turned away, and they ended their walk through the garden in silence.

***

Late in the evening, when the house was dark and quiet, Javert came into Valjean’s bedroom. He carried a candle; in its light, his face suddenly seemed old and tired. There was grey at his brow, and lines around his mouth that Valjean thought he had not seen before. Against his chest, Javert was clutching a sheaf of papers.

“Have you brought some reading for the night?” Valjean offered with tentative humor.

“I thought…” Javert stared at him, then looked back to his papers. “Never mind.”

He set them down on Valjean’s table. Again he hesitated.

Valjean thought of the conversation they had had. And then he thought of the night, so many days ago, when he had hurt all over, and when Javert’s heart had beaten reassuringly beneath his head.

He pushed back the blanket and held out his hand.

“Do you still mean it?” Javert said. He seemed strangely intense. “Do you still want me to—”

“To love me? Yes,” Valjean said. “Come.”

Javert did not want him to lie on his back, even though his back now gave him no more than a twinge every now and then. Instead, naked and strangely desperate, Javert pressed himself to his front as they rested on their sides, his arousal hot and hard against Valjean’s, so that he shivered at Javert’s urgency.

Javert’s hands were roving over his body, touching him everywhere while he pressed himself closer. But if they were searching for something, Javert would not say what it was. Instead, Javert kept touching and pushing closer and closer, until Valjean had to bury his face against Javert’s neck, gasping for breath, his senses filled by the scent of Javert’s sweat, Javert’s broad, heavy body straining against his own.

With a moan, Valjean pushed his hand between their bodies. His balls ached, heavy and full as he pulled on them. Javert’s prick smeared wetness against his arm, and he could feel Javert shiver as a groan escaped his throat. Then Valjean wrapped his fingers around the two of them, holding them together as Javert thrust roughly against him.

One of Javert’s hands was on his chest now. It drew through his chest hair, slightly tugging, then finding a nipple. At the twinge of pleasure, Valjean tightened his own fingers and Javert groaned and bent his head, sucking and kissing at his chest. His callused thumb rasped against his nipple until Valjean trembled and groaned, overwhelmed by the friction and the heat of Javert’s hard shaft rubbing against his own.

They spilled themselves almost simultaneously, Javert’s teeth against his chest as Valjean arched. Heat splashed against his belly even as he used his other hand to clutch at Javert’s shoulder, drawing him as close as he could, Javert’s warmth and scent wrapping around him as reassuringly as they always had.

It took long minutes until he realized that Javert was still nuzzling at his chest, and that what his lips were tracing was the shape of the brand.


	70. Chapter 70

Javert did not speak of the papers until the morning sun fell into the bedroom, gleaming on the forgotten papers he had brought. Valjean was still asleep, and he did not stir until half an hour later, when the sun had moved away from the desk to shine onto his pillow instead.

Even then, Javert might not have brought it up, still wondering whether it had been madness to even contemplate a thing he knew was impossible—but when Valjean slowly rose, opening the windows, a breeze disturbed the papers, bringing them to Valjean’s attention.

“What is it you wanted to talk about?” he asked, expectantly turning to Javert. He held out the sheaf of papers to him; he had not, Javert noticed, taken a look this time.

Javert sat up and took hold of the papers. He stared at them, despair rising within him as words and numbers blurred before his eyes.

“A mad dream. A fantasy,” he said. Then he tightened his fingers, crushing the paper in his fist, and covered his face as he hoarsely laughed.

“It’s impossible. No matter where I look, or what words I try to twist, it’s impossible. Valjean, I was hoping I could… I was searching for a way to free you. But I cannot see a way. I cannot.”

Before him, Valjean had stiffened. He had not yet dressed; the morning sun was gleaming on his skin, and when Javert lowered his hands, he saw the brand there on his breast, the letter pale and inescapable.

“Free me?” Valjean asked slowly. “I know it’s impossible. I know what I am.”

“But it’s not right,” Javert muttered, angrily pulling at his whiskers. Again he stared at the pages he had crushed; with a sound of despair, he dropped them onto the bed.

“Perhaps it’s I who is lacking. What do I know of the letter of the law? I do as I’m told. I’ve never sought to twist authority to my own desires. But there are men—lawyers—I can hire. Perhaps, if a lawyer were to look into this—”

“No,” Valjean said hastily. When Javert looked up, he was still very pale, although he spoke with complete determination. “You cannot tell anyone. I forbid it. Please, Javert—I couldn’t bear it. Was it not enough to have caught the attention of these men? Will there now be more eyes staring at me, prodding me, showing me off like a fantastical beast? And what if those men, who you trust might free me, will instead choose to act like the men we met before? I couldn’t bear it, Javert. I won’t. I’d rather stay here in our house and the garden. We’re safe here. No one will ever find me here. Think of how happy we’ll be!”

Again Javert laughed, the sound rusty and terrible even to his own ears. “Do you think I don’t want that? If I could make certain that you’d be safe here forever… But the law is the law. What if I hadn’t been there that night to protect you? And little good my protection turned out—but think of how much worse it could’ve been. Think of what happens should I die. I have no family, no heirs. Will you be returned to the state? Or, suppose I formally adopt Cosette. Shall she become your owner in turn? How long will we truly be safe here, Valjean? How much longer can I keep you safe?”

Valjean closed his eyes. “I would rather have that danger looming over me than be exposed in my shame once more,” he said, his voice trembling. “If you care for me, Javert, you won’t do that to me. Anything but that. I’m a convict. A recidivist. A slave. There is no pardon for a wretch like me—and then, for what reason? What would you tell them? I have run; they know that I’ve run from you before.”

“You saved my life.” Javert pulled away the sheet, baring himself. There, on the inside of his thigh, he had a brand of his own. Many years ago, the tip of a blade had seared his skin, burning out the poison of a snake. As Valjean watched, Javert traced the outline of it: the tip of the knife had left a brand that resembled the letter _V_.

Bitterly, Javert smiled. “Perhaps you’re right. I certainly don’t have the authority to demand your release. After all, what good is the life of a police spy—and one who gave quite a different account of that day before?”

“I have money, Javert.” Valjean had not shared the hiding place of his fortune, and Javert had never asked. “If it becomes necessary, I can take Cosette and flee. That money will be a better protection than a pardon. If I had to, I could even take us to England.”

“And so I will go on fearing every day that a man might look at you and recognize you,” Javert said angrily.

“As I do—as I have, for most of my life.” Valjean gave him a wan smile. 

“It’s not right,” Javert muttered again. “It’s not right.”

Valjean took hold of one of the pages, remaining silent as he smoothed it with his hands. He looked at it, his eyes hooded, then put it away.

“There is one thing you could do.” Valjean did not meet Javert’s eyes. “There is a way for Jean Valjean to vanish, and for a different man to live with you. A former gardener, perhaps. A man called Fauchelevent.” Valjean swallowed, and then at last looked at Javert, his eyes tired. “A man with papers in that name.”

“Forged papers,” Javert exclaimed through clenched teeth, “forged—and do you think I will assist in yet another crime?”

“No.” Valjean was silent for a moment, and then he shook his head, his shoulders bent. “No. I didn’t expect that. Not from you.”

“Good God.” Angrily, Javert rubbed his eyes. Still naked, he stood, pacing from bed to window to wall and back again without even considering his state of undress.

“It’s impossible,” he muttered. “And then, it’s forgery! It’s not just him—I would be guilty of that crime just as well. But then, it wouldn’t be the first crime, would it? Oh, how the tables have turned; here I am, right back in that muck I pulled myself out of.”

Abruptly, he turned on his heels, giving Valjean an accusing stare. “And even with forged papers, how would we hide the brand? Suppose a man recognizes you on the streets again; suppose they ignore your forged papers. Why, all they would have to do is tear your shirt, as I did, and there the brand would betray the scheme!”

Valjean swallowed, raising a trembling hand to his chest. “The brand would have to go. An old burn. An injury sustained during my years at the convent. I can do it myself.”

“Do it—good God,” Javert muttered again, turning once more to slap his hand against the wall. Then he clenched his fingers, thinking of the strange sizzle and the stink of burning flesh on that day so many years ago.

“You are mad,” he said, although much of his conviction had gone out of it. “It’s madness, all of it. I could never—”

“I would not ask you to help.” Valjean spoke calmly behind his back, as though what he was suggesting was an ordinary thing to discuss. “Valjean has to leave. Or perhaps he left months ago, on your orders. I will be Fauchelevent, brother of an old acquaintance of yours when you lived in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Our neighbors have never seen much of me, and they only know me as Fauchelevent. For them, nothing will seem amiss.”

“Madness,” Javert murmured again, his mind frantically trying to find any weaknesses in Valjean’s plan. “It could not work… and then, to assist forgery, perjury, a hundred other distasteful things…”

“All you need to do is look the other way, just as your colleagues did yesterday,” Valjean pointed out. “It would work. Why wouldn’t it? I could spend the rest of my years here, with you and Cosette, and I would no longer have to fear.”

Javert thrust his fingers into his whiskers to give them a vicious pull. “Why wouldn’t it, why wouldn’t it…”

He paced back towards the bed, where Valjean was still seated, watching him with quiet determination. 

“It’s not right.” The words broke free once more when he sat down next to Valjean. He took Valjean’s face into his hands, staring into his eyes, and then he kissed him, harsh and desperate.

“And what if it goes wrong?” Javert demanded when they parted. “When the man who sells you the forged papers decides to blackmail you—when that gendarme comes across you again—when—”

“My situation wouldn’t be worse than it is now,” Valjean said quietly.

“Oh, it could be a lot worse.” Javert bit back another despairing sound. “For one thing, that situation yesterday would have gone very differently—I would have had no authority to get you out of their grasp.”

“Well then. It could be worse.” Valjean did not back down, his eyes resting heavily on Javert. “But I would be free.”

Javert swallowed. He thought of a hundred different things to say—a hundred different things that might go wrong, the number of laws they would break, the consequences if they were discovered. And yet, with Valjean watching him, he could not bring himself to voice them. What could he say to those words, after all?

After a moment, Valjean rested a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s as you said to me, that day years ago, when I was still working in the convent. Do you remember? You warned me that it was not so easy. That it would do me no good to pretend that I wasn’t a slave, that you couldn’t always protect me. You were right. I know that now. I would stay here in our home forever—but even that won’t change what I am in the eyes of the state.”

“No,” Javert agreed. He bent his head. His shoulders tensed, and after a moment, Valjean drew him close.

“This is what I want,” Valjean murmured hoarsely. “This life—this happiness. To spend every day watching Cosette play in the garden, to sit with you in the evening, to embrace you when we extinguish the lights… But I also want to be free, Javert.”

Javert drew in a shuddering breath, his lips brushing Valjean’s shoulder.

“Very well,” he said, almost voicelessly. “Very well. We’ll do as you say. You shall be M. Fauchelevent again, and you shall be free.”

Valjean’s hands drew down his back, holding him close, his mouth pressing a kiss to Javert’s hair. “And I’ll be yours,” Valjean added. “Every night, if you’ll have me. Even on planks, if that’s still what you desire.”

Despite the burning of his eyes, Javert released another hoarse laugh. “To have you here will be enough,” he muttered. “Forged papers—if my superiors knew… But never mind. It’ll have to be done. But not now. First, let this event be forgotten. In a month or two, I will inquire whether that gendarme is still in Paris. Those officers won’t have submitted a report—not when they accepted the man’s coins.”

“I won’t return to those shops,” Valjean said quietly. “For a month or two, I will stay here, and send out Toussaint to the bookseller instead.”

“And you will no longer go to Saint-Sulpice.”

Valjean hesitated. At last, he inclined his head. “A different church will be found. I will write to the priest and inform him that business demands I leave.”

“There is no shortage of priests and orphans in Paris,” Javert said. “Another cause can be found for you next year.”

“Then we are in agreement?”

Javert nodded sharply, not trusting himself to speak. For a moment, the specter of abandonment rose before him again: who was to say that with new papers, Valjean might not take Cosette and flee—not just from his old life, but also from Javert?

And yet, Valjean could have done so already. He had not. He had instead asked for Javert’s help with that mad plan of his.

And had it not been Javert’s intention to free him? Was it not true that the law had shown him no way out even though Javert knew that it was not right, that Valjean did not deserve the shame of the brand?

When the law was wrong, and the galley-slave was right, perhaps then indeed there was no other way but to force himself forward into the murky depth of twilight, trusting neither law nor authority, but trusting that he had to go forward regardless, and that eventually, some path would be revealed to him.

“I have informants,” Javert said after a moment. “I can look into a trustworthy man who might find you papers—”

With a rare, soft laugh, Valjean reached out and touched his arm.

“I would rather you didn’t,” he said, his eyes warm. “Javert demanding an illegal favor—what attention that will attract. No. I’ll do it myself. You know there are such places where desperate men might acquire these things. It’s true: I am a galley-slave. I won’t attract attention. These people will know me for what I am, just as you’ve always done.”

“You will be careful?” Javert demanded.

Valjean nodded. His hand gently slid downward, until it came to rest where Javert’s heart was beating rhythmically. “Thank you,” Valjean said simply.

“No.” Javert felt the sharp sting of shame. “Don’t thank me. Not for that—never for that.”

***

Two months passed, just as they had planned. Every now and then, Javert thought of their plan and felt disbelief rise up within him once more—could it be true that he, Javert, had willingly agreed to take part in such a charade, to mock the letter of the law and flout the grasp of authority?

And yet, there was no other way forward that he could see. This was the path he had to walk—a path that led him into an unknown mist of doubt, but that would also allow him to walk by Valjean’s side.

For two months, Valjean had claimed to have been weakened by a cold. He had not left the house, opting to stay inside or spend time in the garden with Cosette, near the back where none of the neighbors could see him. 

Then, at last, Valjean readied himself to go out one night, once darkness had arrived. It was raining that evening, the clouds hanging low and dark above them.

Valjean had pulled on a simple workman’s coat and a cap, which he drew down until most of his face was hidden. Then, he had vanished into the shadows, climbing the wall at the back of their garden to cross the garden of a neighbor who had left the city for the summer.

It was long past midnight when he came back.

Javert had not been able to sleep. Wasting the light of his candle, he had paced in his bedroom, ignoring the papers and pamphlets that lined his desk.

At last, his door soundlessly opened and Valjean came in, damp from the rain. His face looked tired but calm.

“And? How did it go?” Javert demanded in a whisper, reaching out to grab Valjean by the shoulders despite the wetness of his coat.

“I met a man,” Valjean said. “He said he has a friend who can do what I’ve asked for. I’ll meet him again next week.”

“You’ll be careful?” Javert asked again.

“Yes,” Valjean said, drawing off his damp coat and the cap. He looked weary, but his eyes were determined, even when Javert moved close enough to rest a hand against his chest. Some of the tension went out of Valjean, his shoulders relaxing. “Yes.”


	71. Chapter 71

Less than two weeks later, Valjean found himself once more in Javert’s bedroom, clutching a small bundle with hands that had suddenly begun to tremble, now that he was safely at home once more.

“Is it done? Have you—” Javert began anxiously, only to bite back his words, looking around as if he expected one of his colleagues to enter his bedroom at any moment.

Valjean put his little parcel down on Javert’s desk, then sank into his chair. “It is done,” he sat when he looked up at Javert.

He watched as Javert unwrapped the small parcel. There, wrapped in protective layers of waxed fabric, rested his new life. Papers in the name of Ultime Fauchelevent—a gardener who had worked in the convent of Petit-Picpus. It was under this name that the nuns had known him; were anyone to doubt his story and inquire after him, they would find that the story was indeed true, and that he was the brother of a man of whom even the Pope had spoken in admiring words.

Javert exhaled, then raised a hand, rubbing his eyes.

“That is done,” he muttered. “I cannot believe that I—but never mind that now. The papers seem in order. The story will hold up. Now the slave needs to vanish—”

“Sent to labor in the gypsum quarries,” Valjean said. “Jean Valjean, sixty-four years of age, branded with a _J_. Dead in an accident that crushed him.”

“Will that story hold up?” A crease had appeared between Javert’s heavy brows. “If someone were to inquire at the quarry—”

“Who would? And then, no one asks about old slaves or convicts,” Valjean said calmly. “An announcement of death has been slipped into the files of the quarry and the parish. An old galley-slave’s death is of no interest to anyone. Jean Valjean was just a number. And now he has joined the number of those dead this month.”

Javert rubbed his face, then he took a deep breath.

“Very well.” From his drawer, Javert took a small box. “And I have utensils to treat a burn. Purchased two weeks ago, from an apothecary far from here.”

Valjean nodded slowly. “Then now is the time to leave.”

He had rented a small apartment in the Rue du Cadran. He had paid for a month, although a week would suffice, he hoped. If the wound healed cleanly, he would not suffer for more than a few days.

The apartment, when they finally arrived, was cramped and dark. But when Javert drew back the curtains, he saw that the bedroom window opened to the backside of the house, and the street was narrow and quiet—too narrow for carriages to pass through.

They had come dressed in old coats; Javert, for once, without the black greatcoat, but wearing like Valjean the simple garb and cap of a worker.

Javert had informed the portress that his brother-in-law was ill, having come to Paris to receive treatment from a doctor who was an old friend of the family. This would give them excuse enough for their reclusion, and also, Valjean hoped, for his own recuperation. To ensure that Valjean would be able to rest, Javert had informed the portress that he would come to collect their food, and that his brother was weak and not to be disturbed.

Now Jean Valjean looked around the bedroom and then set to unpack the small bag of things he had brought. For his nightstand, there was the Bible and The Lives of the Saints. For the wall opposite his bed, he had brought a small, copper crucifix.

Once everything was arranged to his liking, he took a deep breath and then began to undress.

“Will you light the stove?” Valjean asked as he put down his coat. Next, he pulled off his cravat and waistcoat. Then, when just the shirt remained, he came to join Javert by the stove.

The fire was burning merrily; he could feel its heat on his face. From his pocket, he drew a metal chisel. He thrust it into the flames. Then, he returned to his bed, sitting down to gaze at the crucifix that now gleamed on the other wall.

“You are certain?” Javert asked, then laughed hoarsely and tugged on his whiskers, pacing again. “Of course he is certain,” he muttered. “Of course…”

“You don’t need to stay,” Valjean said quietly. “Go out. Take a walk. Buy a bottle of wine, if you like, and return in fifteen minutes.”

Javert scoffed as he turned abruptly, fixing Valjean with one of the stares that made criminals quail.

“Take a walk! Me, Javert, to leave you at this moment? Bah, Valjean, I watched when that brand was put on you. If I could bear that, then I can bear this.”

“As you wish.” Valjean loosened the buttons of his shirt, then drew it off. He flushed a little at the way Javert’s eyes rested on him.

Silently, Javert stared at him. A moment later, he stepped closer and went to his knees.

A shiver ran through Valjean at the heat of Javert’s breath against his skin. Then Javert’s fingers followed, tracing the shape of the brand once more.

This morning, Valjean had taken a razor and carefully shaved off the wiry hair that grew around the brand. Now Javert’s finger circled his nipple, and then he leaned forward to press a kiss to it, Valjean’s breath catching in his throat.

“Care must be taken not to damage this,” Javert murmured hoarsely, looking up at Valjean from dark eyes. “I enjoy the sounds it draws from you too much.”

Valjean nodded dizzily.

“In fact,” Javert then continued, still on his knees, “in fact I believe I cannot in good conscience allow you to do this.”

Valjean stiffened. Everything had been planned so carefully. Had Javert now suddenly decided that he could not go through with the plan after all, that he relished the sight of the _J_ on his chest too much?

Javert’s hand rose to touch his face. “You’ve suffered enough pain already. You shouldn’t be forced to burn yourself, and for a mistake that was mine all along. I’ll do it. It won’t be the worst you have suffered at my hands.”

Valjean’s eyes wandered towards the stove. The fire was still burning brightly; he thought that he could make out a red glow from the chisel.

“You don’t have to do that,” he protested faintly, before Javert’s fingers moved to his lips.

“No. I do have to,” Javert said. “I do. It’s only right.”

After a moment, Valjean nodded hesitantly. “If you think so.”

Javert’s arms came around him. Once more he felt the heat of Javert’s lips against his brand. In Valjean’s chest, his heart was pounding, every beat like a stab. He groaned as he threaded his fingers through Javert’s hair.

When Javert finally released him, still on his knees before him, his eyes were red. Had he wept?

“I’ll still be yours,” Valjean said. “I’ll still be yours, even without that brand—”

“I know,” Javert murmured, and then slid his hand into Valjean’s hair, demandingly pulling him close.

Valjean shuddered at the hot slide of Javert’s tongue against his own, a pounding between his legs threatening to distract him from the task at hand. How easy it would be to put it off for an hour. All it would take was the touch of Javert’s hand on his chest, and at the gentlest pressure, he would allow himself to be pushed onto his back, legs spreading to receive Javert, and for long, long moments he’d be able to forget all about what was at stake…

“Come,” Javert murmured when he at last moved away. “It’s time.”

The chisel glowed a sinister red when Javert drew it from the stove. Valjean looked at it, his blood running cold when he remembered the agony of the first brand. But it could be borne. He had known others in the bagne who had attempted to burn their own brands; not always successful, but it could be done.

It had to be done. If this was what it took to ensure that he would be able to stay by Cosette’s side for the rest of his life, his past buried once and for all, then he would bear it without a single sound of protest.

“On the bed, I think,” Javert said. “Grasp the headboard. Hold on as tightly as you can, and try not to move.”

“I won’t move.”

The bed frame was made of iron. The mattress was old, but the iron seemed sturdy enough. Valjean took a deep breath and then he spread his arms, baring his breast to Javert as he gripped the iron bars as tightly as he could.

Javert stood by his side. His mouth was narrow and firm, his eyes reflecting the red glow of the chisel.

“Forgive me,” he said. Then, with a sure hand, he pressed the red-hot metal against Valjean’s chest.

For a split second, Valjean did not feel the heat. Then came an explosion of agony as the iron seared his skin. He trembled, forcing himself to be silent as every nerve screamed. His vision turned dark at the edges; there was nothing but the pain, sharp and unbearable, like being skewered by a lance of molten iron.

He gripped the bedframe so hard that he could no longer feel his fingers, arms stretched out as he shuddered. Transfixed by pain, his eyes were full of tears—and still it went on and on, the room filled by the stench of burning flesh.

Then Javert pulled the chisel away, hurriedly dropping it into a bucket by the stove. Valjean’s chest was still burning, every nerve aflame, as if the iron had never been pulled away.

“Here,” Javert said hastily as he returned to his side, Valjean barely able to make out the words.

“Drink this.”

A glass was raised to Valjean’s lips. He could taste the bitterness of laudanum as he swallowed. Then Javert’s arms came around him, helping him to lie down.

“You’ll fall asleep very soon,” Javert’s voice said, already becoming more distant. “I’ll be by your side all day and night. I’ll make certain that you keep sleeping. And tomorrow, it will be better. I promise.”

Valjean groaned, his chest still ablaze even through the dark mist encroaching on his senses. He could feel a soft, cool cloth against his forehead. He reached out and found Javert’s hand. He was already too weak to curl his fingers around Javert’s, but Javert pressed his hand, his lips brushing another kiss to his brow.

“Sleep now. You’re safe.”

Then darkness swallowed Valjean, a light still distantly burning, as though there was a glowing ember on his chest.

Eventually, even that light went out, and he sank into a dreamless darkness.

If he woke during the night, he could not remember. When he regained his senses, it was morning. There was light coming in through the window, a breeze making the curtain rustle, and Javert was asleep in a chair by his side.

Valjean shifted slightly in the bed, until a jolt of throbbing pain reminded him what had come to pass. He grimaced, raising his head to peer at his chest.

The skin was red and blistered, covered by a thick layer of salve. He could still taste the bitterness of medicine in the back of his throat.

When he turned his head, he saw a bottle of laudanum on the nightstand, as well as a glass of water.

“You’re awake,” Javert said hoarsely, wincing as he stretched.

Had he slept in the chair all night? Dimly, Valjean remembered a familiar warmth and weight by his side.

“How are you feeling?”

Tentatively, Valjean smiled. “It hurts,” he said, trying to breathe slowly against the pulsing pain. “But it’s bearable. How does it look? Did you obscure the brand?”

“Time will tell,” Javert said. “It depends on how it heals. But I will be pleased if I don’t ever have to do this again.”

Valjean smiled wryly. “So will I be,” he said. 

“Come. You need to eat something.” Javert took up a mug from the nightstand and raised it to Valjean’s lips. It was broth, Valjean found when he obediently sipped, still warm.

“Would you like bread? It’s been a while since you last had food—”

Silently, Valjean shook his head. His chest still ached with every beat of his heart, a fierce, stinging throb that threatened to overwhelm all of his senses.

“More laudanum? You should sleep some more. Give it time to heal.”

“Perhaps in an hour.” Valjean held out his hand. “I want to be awake for a little.”

“It will take a few more days until we can even think of _comfort_ ,” Javert murmured wryly, although he took Valjean’s hand and joined him on the bed.

Valjean exhaled, feeling weary and strangely disjointed, the pain a red-hot knife that stabbed through him with every beat of his heart, like a cruel, relentless pulse.

He ignored it as well as was possible, leaning his head against Javert’s shoulder.

“You’re comfort enough for now,” he murmured, closing his eyes and breathing in the familiar scent of Javert’s sweat and soap, mixed now with the smoky aroma of tobacco.

He smiled a little. Snuff was a vice Javert did not indulge in often; he had to be more ruffled by the experience than he had let on.

They would still have this. Once the wound had healed, they would return to what they had before. Valjean would have a new name, but that would be the only thing that had changed. He would still have Javert, and Javert would still have him. And there would be years of quiet happiness to come, watching Cosette in their garden.


	72. Chapter 72

It took a week until the burn no longer pained Valjean. After the first two days, he had refused all further laudanum, which Javert had been forced to grudgingly accept. Now, there was a red, tender spot on Valjean’s chest, which still ached when Valjean exerted himself, but no longer seemed to bother him overly much when resting.

Truly, it was all they had been able to hope for. It had taken months for the initial brand to fade from angry red to white scars; they would have to be just as patient with this burn. And as he could not keep Valjean in bed for the months it would take for the wound to heal completely, Javert was content enough to have him safely at home, hidden behind walls where no one would ever find him. Here, Valjean had been Fauchelevent all along, and no one had reason to suspect that he was anything other than an aging gentleman retired with his daughter and a friend.

After a month, Valjean could move with ease, taking up shovel and hoe again to tend to the rosebushes he had planted in the garden. Cosette, who had accepted the explanation that Valjean had fallen sick, was overjoyed. She clung to his side, a smile on her face, filling the garden with her endless chatter whenever Javert happened to observe him. And Valjean in turn was radiant, watching her with such joy that even now, Javert felt a sting in his heart at his devotion to her.

Who was she but the child of a prostitute?

And yet, even now, after having lived together in this house for a year, there was another part of his mind at war with that knowledge. She drew out all the respect it was in his nature to give a bourgeoise, even though he knew her true background. Still, the instincts that had guided him all his life seemed to leave him when it came to the matter of Cosette; false or not, there was no deceit in her, and the bourgeois manners seemed as natural as the fall of her mother had seemed to him before.

What a conundrum for a man who had never before been called on to make such judgements. Had Javert not come from that same caste of villainy, and had he not always been aware that no matter how hard he worked, that filth at the core of him could never be denied nor washed off? Was he now to live with a woman who had drawn a dress of damask over that same filth, and bow to her and show her courtesy?

Nevertheless, there seemed to be nothing but goodness at the heart of Cosette, despite her alarming proclivity for bonnets from Herbaut and Gérard. Overwhelmed by these observations that stood at war with each other, Javert had no choice but to bow to Valjean’s judgement of the matter—and in truth, he was quite content to leave the role of _father_ to Valjean, remaining but a distant guardian.

“You look well today, father,” Cosette said one morning very early, when both had woken before dawn.

Javert, who had just returned from a frustrating and unsuccessful stake-out, had settled in the study with a blanket and a cup of coffee to gather his thoughts before retiring.

“I am much better. Truly, there’s nothing you have to worry,” Valjean said, gracing her with a look of such devoted love that Javert had to bite back a disgruntled sound.

“Will you go to watch the sunrise with me again? It has been such a long time since we walked together.” Cosette wrapped her arms around Valjean’s as she laughed. “Look how early it is. We can still make it in time.”

Valjean stiffened, and now, at last, his gaze turned to Javert almost guiltily. Was he thinking of what had come to pass the last time he had left the house without Javert?

It was so early that no one should see them. And truly, as much as he would like to, Javert knew that he could not keep Valjean inside their walls forever. Still, the thought of Valjean out on the streets, where anyone might see him, was unsettling now in a way that it had not been before.

“I believe I will join you,” Javert said calmly, putting away his notebook.

He had made inquiries, and had been pleased to hear that the gendarme had set out for his new brigade in the Hérault a mere two days after the incident. He had felt satisfaction at the news; perhaps there was some justice left in the world after all. In any case, Valjean was no longer in any danger from this man.

Half an hour later, they were near the Barrière du Maine. The sky was already faintly illuminated, rose and orange veiling the sky to herald the rising sun. Above, the dark of the night sky had given way to an ever more lightening blue. And then, at last, the first sliver of the sun peeked over the horizon, and Cosette made a sound of delight.

When he looked at them, he found that Valjean was holding Cosette’s hand in his, his face lit by such a serene joy that Javert’s heart clenched once more, remembering the way Valjean’s fingers had entwined with his just a day past, Valjean’s eyes closed as he breathed desperate gasps of hot air against Javert’s skin.

Valjean was still his. That was what he had promised, and Javert knew it was still true. In that most important way, Valjean would always be his, and his alone. Nevertheless, it was hard for his greedy heart to be satisfied with that when the hunger for Valjean’s surrender never left his blood.

The sky had brightened when next he looked up. The rose had given way to a brilliant red, the dark blue of the sky turning purple, and beneath, there glowed the sun, a half-circle of blinding light rising ever upward.

“Father, what is that strange sound?” Cosette suddenly asked.

In the distance, there was a sound which, little by little, had gained in volume. Javert had paid it no attention; he had been entirely unaware of it, in fact, although a part of his mind must have picked up on the strange rhythm.

It was a sound that was so familiar to him that he had not consciously taken note of it until Cosette drew their attention to it.

When he looked at Valjean, he found him frozen, his face very pale and his mouth lined with remembered pain.

“It is the chain-gang,” Valjean said with obvious reluctance, his eyes filled with dread.

Silently, Javert moved to his side. He did not dare to reach out for his hand.

There, coming steadily closer, a strange apparition moved, undulation like a terrible beast. Its progress was marked by moans and shouts of misery, and Javert did not have to look at who traveled there to know what sights of wretchedness he would see.

How often had he watched the same event? Javert could not tell. Never before had the sight filled his heart with horror. Once, it had been an event that marked the successful sentencing of men posing a danger to society, their exposure a warning to anyone who would choose to walk the path they did. Now, with Valjean pale and trembling by his side, the sight was no longer one that filled him with satisfaction,.

But for Javert’s interference a few weeks ago, Valjean might have marched among them.

Once more two warring voices seemed to shout within Javert’s mind. Was not each of these men so chained a scoundrel, a murderer, a criminal eager to cause the downfall of all order and the misery of honest citizens?

And yet, to imagine Valjean so humbled, to imagine Valjean’s breast bared to the eyes of all onlookers, his eyes full of that sort of dry misery that Javert had seen in a thousand faces and never wept at before, his neck encircled by the square collar of iron, attached to the same chain that bound two dozen others carried forward by the same wagon…

A strange tremor had taken hold of Javert’s heart. He could not take his eyes off the approaching sight. Slowly, the terrible beast advanced towards them.

“Father, are they still men?” Cosette asked in a hushed voice.

“Sometimes,” Valjean said, his voice faint. In it, Javert could hear the memory of a hundred torments, and the fate he had so narrowly evaded once more.

The sun had fully risen now, the sight forgotten by the three onlookers who stood transfixed by the tableau of wretchedness that presented itself to them. It was not until the creaking wheels, jangling chains, groans of pain and blows of the cudgel had become a roar of misery belched forth by this great beast, that Javert bestirred himself.

“Mademoiselle, we will leave now,” he said firmly, taking her arm.

Her face was pale as well, he saw, her eyes wide and shocked. He did not dare to look at Valjean—not here, when the need to touch his face to reassure himself that Valjean was safe and hale was almost overwhelming.

With the chain-gang at their back, they hastily retraced their steps. Neither of them felt inclined to speak, nor to comment upon the song of the lark or the now fully risen sun. It was a miserable walk back to the Rue Plumet, and when they entered their home at last, Toussaint was already awake, the kitchen reassuringly warm and filled by the sound of clanging pots.

“Awake! All of them!” she exclaimed. “And mademoiselle outside at such an hour! Good God, you must sit down and have breakfast now—to go out without having eaten, and monsieur just barely recovered! Look how pale he is; oh, monsieur Javert, I would have expected better of you than to allow such a thing!”

When Javert led Valjean to an armchair, she quickly spread a blanket over him and then lit a fire in the stove despite Valjean’s protest.

Cosette was pale as well. Her eyes looked strangely bruised, and with sudden shock Javert remembered the small child that had clung to the mare, sitting in front of him as Valjean led them through the forest, away from Thénardier. How strange it was to think of her as she was now, and the child she had been then. Had the sight of the chain-gang awoken memories of past misery?

“Will you tell Toussaint to bring him a cup of coffee? And another for me as well, mademoiselle?” he politely asked Cosette.

At his demand, some of the paleness left her face, and she acquiesced eagerly—perhaps as eager as Javert for some return of normalcy after that incident.

Once she had left the room, Javert went to the cupboard where a bottle of brandy was stored. He poured a glass for Valjean—then, on second thought, poured one for himself as well.

“Here. Drink,” he said simply, pushing the glass into Valjean’s hand. At Valjean’s pale look, he added, “I’ll have some myself.”

He raised the small glass to his lips, then swallowed the burning liquid at once. Warmth filled his throat as it went down, the sting of alcohol restoring some of his equilibrium at last.

Mechanically, Valjean had followed his motion. Now, he coughed, raising a hand to his mouth. But when Javert knelt down in front of him, some life had at last returned to his eyes.

Javert reached out to cup his face in his hand, allowing his fingers to linger for a moment, Valjean’s warmth reassuring against his skin. At his touch, Valjean gave him a hesitant smile.

“I’m fine, Javert,” he said. After a moment, he added thoughtfully, “I never thought I would see you unsettled by such a sight.”

“Ha,” Javert said grimly, “It turned my stomach, to say the truth; if that pleases you, it is well, because I deserve it. To think of you chained again, to think of you taken away…”

Valjean took a deep breath. “All is well. I’m at home. I am Fauchelevent, a former gardener who has come into some money. What do I have to fear from such a sight?”

“Fool,” Javert said with as much tenderness as was possible for him, and then he reluctantly drew back when clanking cups and the sound of steps announced the return of Cosette.

“There, father, some coffee will restore you,” she said, placing the tray down on the table by his armchair.

Javert returned their glasses to the cupboard; if she saw, she did not comment on it. When he turned back at last, he found her on her knees by Valjean’s side, his hands held in hers as she pressed kisses to them.

“My gentle, sweet father,” she said, “who is the kindest, best man in the world.”

There was a light on Valjean’s face now, his eyes filled with a sort of desperate love as he tilted his head to gaze upon her with an expression of such rapturous joy that despair threatened to take hold of Javert’s heart once more. Javert swallowed, pushing back the emotion. He took hold of his own cup, sipping the hot coffee without tasting it, his mind still a turmoil.

Valjean was safe, he reminded himself once more. Never again would Valjean know such shame and suffering. Had not the forged papers taken care of that?

It had been an abhorrence to him: to thus deceive the law, to become a forger himself in all but the actual act, to know himself no better than all those men he had jailed in his life. And yet, now that Valjean was pale and shaken before him, Javert knew that he would do the same all over again if necessary.

For Jean Valjean, laws could be bent, even if it threatened to tear apart Javert’s own breast in the process. If there was a higher authority than the state, it had not spoken to him; no priest would counsel him in such matters. Nevertheless, when it came to Jean Valjean, there seemed to be no other path to follow than the twisted road that had led Javert right into this conundrum.

He might not much like this path of twilight he now trod—but walk it he must. Even though the road was not straight, it was the only path before him.


	73. Chapter 73

No birds sang when Valjean woke. It was still dark, and there was not even the faintest hint of light shining through their curtain. Next to him, Javert had shifted, which had woken Valjean.

“Go back to sleep,” Javert murmured, his voice hoarse with sleep. “I must be off.”

His whiskers scratched against Valjean’s neck, and a moment later, there was the brush of Javert’s mouth against his shoulder.

Valjean turned, blinking up at Javert. “I could rise with you.” He did not sleep much these days; the older he grew, the earlier he seemed to wake.

Javert laughed, the sound rough and intimate. His hand moved beneath the covers until Valjean gasped.

“I could make you rise for me. But then I would be late...”

Shivering, his heart filled with overflowing warmth, Valjean reached out to wrap his arms around Javert’s neck, their foreheads pressing together for a moment as he trembled at Javert’s certain, firm grasp.

“Perhaps we can retire early this evening,” Javert said, his eyes hungry as he gazed at Valjean. Then he bent down to kiss him, groaning as Valjean’s hand stroked against his whiskers. “Now go back to sleep.”

Valjean exhaled when Javert’s tormenting hand left him, watching from half-closed eyes as Javert pulled on what clothes they had left on the floor the past night. Then, just as silently as he had arrived, Javert was gone, retreating to his own bedroom to wash and ready himself for his workday.

Valjean remained abed for a long while, listening to the quiet sounds of the house. Eventually, he heard the sound of Javert’s boots on the stairs, and then the sound of their door. Dimly, he could make out a faint rattling every now and then—a sign that Toussaint was awake as well, preparing coffee in the kitchen.

When he stood at last and drew back the curtains, the sun had fully risen. The birds had been singing for a while, and he was able to make out a rabbit moving beneath a bush.

Perhaps that was where he would spend his day. He could weed around the rose bushes once more, and then retire with a book in a chair, watching while Cosette ran and pretended to hunt for butterflies or rabbits.

Maybe they would read together. She had calmly accepted his explanation that they could no longer help the parish of Saint-Sulpice—and with Javert suddenly so protective of him, the idea of employment for her had not been brought up again, which Valjean was grateful for.

Nevertheless, he would have liked to visit Saint-Sulpice again. Certainly enough time had passed now that it should be permissible to go out again. The brand on his chest had healed well. It was still red instead of white, but the large burn was no longer painful.

Valjean had sent a letter with another generous donation to the convent of Petit-Picus, giving the prioress his gratitude, and suggesting that it be used to help repair the old stove in the kitchen, which had once given him such a frightful burn.

The prioress, by her nature ignorant of much of what had gone on in the daily lives of the gardeners, would not question such a thing—and perhaps, were she to be questioned in the future, would remember that one of her gardeners had once been injured.

In either case, Valjean had nothing to fear from her.

“Father,” Cosette said when he finally joined her for their breakfast, “are you well again?”

“As well as can be expected,” he said seriously.

Weeks had passed since that terrible incident by the Barrière du Maine. It had left Cosette shaken as well for a few days, although she had soon fully recovered from the sight.

Now she was smiling at him, taking hold of his hand. His heart filled with helpless joy as she gazed at him lovingly.

“Would you like to walk with me today?” she asked. “It has been so long since we walked together. You haven’t left the garden in a month, father.”

“Would you like to go to the Luxembourg?” Valjean found himself asking—a place he had avoided since that boy had traced them to their old home.

“I would like that,” Cosette replied, her eyes filling with happiness.

At the sight, Valjean felt another sting in his heart. He did not give voice to it. Instead, he finished his breakfast, thinking with misery of the boy he had seen, and of how easily he might lose all that he held dear to such a wretched thief. But surely such misfortune had been averted by now?

When they made it to the park, Valjean entered it as had been his habit by the deserted entrance near the Rue de l’Ouest. From there, they walked slowly along the familiar alleys. It was not too warm, although the sun was shining. Even so, Valjean found that he could not listen to the song of the birds. The closer they came to the bench where they had sat so many times, the heavier his heart grew. By his side, Cosette was chattering merrily, pointing out birds and the sight of familiar trees like long-lost friends.

“Would you like to sit down?” he asked when they reached the bench that had for so long been home to their happiness.

“If you wish, father.” Cosette’s voice had suddenly gone hollow, the earlier excitement gone out of her.

When he followed her gaze, he saw that the bench where that despicable boy had sat was empty.

In silence, Valjean sat by Cosette’s side. Every now and then, people would pass them by. As he had so long ago, he would point them out to Cosette, and every time, Cosette would make a dutiful remark. And yet, there was an absence now where always before, Cosette had shone like one of the stars in the night sky.

“Would you like to leave?” he asked after half an hour had passed. The bench was still empty. The boy had not shown up.

“If you wish, father,” Cosette said sadly.

She took his arm when she rose, and they made their way back just as they had so many times before. The bench remained empty, and none of the people they encountered on their way were revealed as that certain student who had filled Valjean’s old heart with such instinctive terror.

Nevertheless, when they returned to their home in the Rue Plumet, Cosette still seemed withdrawn, the light in her eyes gone out even though she still smiled at him.

“I think I will read, father,” she said, once they had made it inside, releasing his arm.

“Would you like to return to the park tomorrow?”

“No. Thank you, father,” she replied gently and turned away.

Valjean felt another sting in his heart, as if a terrible truth had been revealed to him.

It was nothing, he tried to tell himself. The boy had not even been in the park. They were safe from such disturbances now, and everything would be as it had always been.

And yet, Cosette, who had laughed and run after butterflies before, carefree and full of joy, seemed irrevocably changed—kinder than before, even, but every look and every tilt of her head carrying the grace of sadness.

By the time Javert returned home, Valjean was glad for the distraction.

Javert was early. It was still light outside, but Valjean had retired to their study, heartbroken by the way Cosette had gently refused to play in the garden. In his hands, he held the Bible, but no psalms would soothe the unexpected terror that had gripped his heart at the thought of losing the one light of his life.

Javert seemed weary, but satisfied. The expression of triumph on his heavy brow, which had once been such a cause for terror for Valjean, now kindled a strange heat in his stomach. Valjean watched as Javert pulled off his gloves and then stripped down to his shirtsleeves.

Valjean’s throat went tight as he looked at Javert standing by the stove for a moment. The light made the white linen of his shirt shine, softening the dramatic angles of his face. That tiger’s jaw and that protruding brow, which had once made him tremble with fear in his nightmares, now awoke a gentler sentiment as he thought of running his hands along those sleeves, imagining the intimacy of fabric warmed by Javert’s body, and how the coarse hair of Javert’s whiskers against his throat would make him shiver.

Then Javert turned. He straightened to his full height, illuminated from behind by the stove so that Valjean could see the outline of broad shoulders and arms through the white shirt.

With sudden relief Valjean thought of how good it would be to lose himself in that embrace tonight. How good God had been, to let him find such comfort again in his old age.

He reached out for Javert’s hand when Javert settled on the couch next to him. Even though they were alone in their study, with Cosette retired to her boudoir and Toussaint busy in the kitchen, a thrill ran through him as he traced along Javert’s fingers with his own, feeling the roughness of skin near his knuckles, the wiry black hair on the back of his hand. The large hand which had once seemed like a beast’s terrible pincer to him now rested relaxed in his own.

“You are in a strange mood,” Javert said, then laughed hoarsely. “But never mind, so am I. A member of Patron-Minette has been arrested. Sometimes you have to rise before the sun to surprise the dawn.”

“I took Cosette to the Luxembourg today,” Valjean said. It felt like an admission of guilt, although he had not done anything forbidden; with the brand gone and his new papers, there was no reason at all why an aging gentleman should not take his daughter to the park.

Still, as unlikely as it seemed, someone might have recognized him. If it had happened before, it might happen again, after all. 

Immediately, Javert stiffened. “You were careful?”

“No one recognized me,” Valjean said. “And we kept to the solitary alleys at the Rue de l’Ouest side. We didn’t remain for long.”

“Good,” Javert said, gazing at him quizzically. “You seem upset. Is something the matter? Even with forged papers, you will always have to be careful…”

“I know that,” Valjean said calmly, choosing not to share the matter of the boy with Javert. After all, what was there to share? That the boy had not been there, and that Cosette had seemed sad when they returned? “And nothing's the matter. I have been waiting for you.”

Boldly, he drew Javert’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

Javert drew in a breath, then laughed again, the sound low and intimate.

“Is that so,” he murmured. “Well then…”

When Valjean released his hand, Javert in turn reached out for him, Javert’s thumb drawing along his bottom lip for a second.

“Perhaps I will retire early after dinner,” Javert said, a focus in his eyes that made Valjean flush as he thought of Javert’s grip on him this morning.

This evening, it was Valjean who stole into Javert’s bedroom, his mind still clouded by sadness. That mist of misery soon lifted, however, for the heat of Javert’s skin against his own proved an excellent restorative.

Boldly, Javert drew his shirt from him, baring his chest. Valjean bore this without protest, even when Javert’s large fingers circled the brand on his chest.

“It’s healing well,” Javert finally murmured, having once more reassured himself in that way, and then pressed his lips to the red skin.

Valjean sighed, allowing himself to be borne down onto the bed. Naked, he sprawled there, allowing Javert’s eyes and hands to take their fill of him. The day’s earlier misery was all but forgotten, wiped from the slate of his mind by the sure touch of Javert’s hand.

“And did I not promise to rouse you earlier?” There was a small, intimate smile on Javert’s lips as his fingers nudged Valjean’s flesh.

Valjean drew in a breath as his shaft stirred. To be spread out like this in the light made him feel strangely vulnerable, especially with Javert still in his nightshirt. Nevertheless, when Javert’s fingers wrapped around him, he moaned, his eyes falling closed, his legs spreading easily when Javert’s other hand slid up his thigh.

Slowly, Javert’s thumb massaged around his hole, which made him flush and shiver. But instead of penetrating him, Javert’s fingers eventually moved on to close around his balls instead to prod at his aching testes in their pouch.

“There, look at you,” Javert murmured with hungry satisfaction. When Valjean groaned, Javert leaned down, his lips finding Valjean’s nipple. Even as the pressure around his testicles increased, Javert’s tongue licked hot and wet across his nipple, until Valjean arched helplessly against him.

“Are these the cause of your strange mood today?” Javert asked, then chuckled warmly when he squeezed even harder, Valjean’s balls pulsing with the ache of being trapped by his strong fingers.

“I knew that these would be trouble the moment I first saw them. Shall we make them feel better?”

His body flushed with heat, Valjean reached out to thread his fingers through Javert’s hair, pressing Javert’s lips to his chest once more as Javert continued to firmly stroke him.

Javert’s lips against the brand made him shiver. Then Javert’s thumb gently nudged his balls again, the pressure a steady pulse of hot ache that kept the pleasure of Javert’s touch from breaking over him.

At last, Javert released him to reach out for the lamp oil. Breathlessly, Valjean watched as Javert pulled his nightshirt up just enough to slick himself, and then he pushed Valjean to his side. A moment later, Valjean felt his prick nudging at his hole, Javert’s arms coming around him at the same moment as he slid inside.

Valjean moaned at the pressure within him. The pleasure was sharp, racing along his spine so that he arched, his balls full and tight. Every time Javert shifted within him, a new jolt of pleasure rushed through him so that he could barely breathe.

Positioned like this, Javert’s thrusts were slow and shallow. Valjean could feel Javert’s breath hot and damp against his nape, his breath coming in pants, Javert’s teeth pressed to his skin as his hips continued to roll against his.

Javert’s arm was tight around his waist, holding him close. Again and again he pushed inside, until Valjean had to reach down and clutch at himself to try and stave off the rising pleasure.

Hoarsely, Javert chuckled into his ear. “Bagne flower,” he murmured again, the words rough and affectionate, and then he took hold of Valjean’s hand to pull it away.

A heartbeat later, Valjean moaned, tightly clutching Javert’s hand instead as ecstasy made his body arch. Release overwhelmed him with such force that his seed splashed wet against his stomach even as Javert found a similar release within him, his lips hot against his neck.

His mind was pleasantly blank when he finally reached for a cloth to wipe himself. Javert withdrew, then pulled up the blanket. And when Valjean settled against him, still naked against Javert’s nightshirt, the misery that had accompanied him all day finally fell away, weary contentment filling him as he rested his hand on Javert’s chest.


	74. Chapter 74

With a frown at the papers piling up before him, Javert looked at the door, from where a knock had just sounded.

“Enter,” he said, making no sign to hide his displeasure.

He had been assigned to the station-house in the Rue de Pontoise for the week, while the Commissaire there was absent, and although he knew that he should be honored that he was called upon to take over the Commissaire’s duties, so far he had heard rather too much about the complaints of washer-women and brawls breaking out between workingmen at a local wine shop.

The man who now entered promised no better prospects. He had the look of a poor scribe, although, Javert supposed, he was decently dressed, and his clothes clean. Another quarrel with noisy neighbors or, perhaps, a stolen purse—a waste of his time, truth be told, when even now he could be walking the streets outside, hunting for Montparnasse or Brujon, who had gone underground after Javert himself had seen Laveuve delivered to La Force.

And yet, if there was one thing Javert was certain of, it was the fact that dawn would unfailingly follow night. A man need only wait for darkness to eventually lay his eyes on the dawn, after all.

A poor clerk with a woeful tale about pick-pockets would make no difference in the long run, and soon enough, Javert would be out on the prowl for Patron-Minette once more. Still, it did not mean that he had to enjoy this part of the Commissaire’s job, which involved listening to outrageous tales while out there, even now people were being murdered in their sleep.

Of course, as it turned out, the young man, by chance or a twist of fate, brought no news of pick-pockets or thieving mistresses, but presented Javert with a tale whose magnitude he seemed unaware of.

“And did you see a little imp of a dandy? Or a scamp with the air of an old red tail?” Javert asked intently, then bared his teeth in disappointment when the boy shook his head.

“Just Panchaud, Brujon and Demi-Liard then—well enough, where three bats fly, the dawn isn’t far off.” Javert laughed to himself while the boy stared at him.

“If you will take my advice, you will come in force,” the boy then said, and Javert fixed him with a withering glare, refusing to deign a reply to such impertinence.

Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets and drew out a pair of small pistols, which he handed to the boy. A fever had taken hold of Javert; after a wasted morning dealing with petty complaints, now, at last, Javert felt in his true element. The hunt was on: Patron-Minette had spun their net to entrap a bourgeois, and in turn, Javert would spin a net of his own.

“Don’t forget anything that I have said to you,” Javert said, “Bang. A pistol shot.”

***

As the appointed hour came near, Javert had gathered his men. All around the Gorbeau hovel, the police was in place, watching streets and alleyways where criminals could be hiding in the shadows.

The house was familiar. Javert felt a surge of triumph as he stared at the entrance, imagining how in an hour or two, all of Patron-Minette would be led out in handcuffs, the villains driven straight to La Force and locked behind bars, where they belonged.

So great was the frisson of excitement that ran through him that, when a junior officer informed him that the mark had arrived in a fiacre, Javert eagerly brushed him aside, still staring at the entrance with bated breath. The victim did not concern him; no, and Javert could not show his hand too soon, or all of Patron-Minette would flee like the dawn driven away by the rising sun.

But as soon as the mark was in place, as soon as Jondrette had spun his trap, as soon as the irons were out and the villains had shown their hand, certain that they had the bourgeois all safely in their lair—ah, that was when Javert in turn would come over them with his pistol out, his men behind him, and they would see how the villains would like that.

“There he is,” one of the men next to him whispered unnecessarily, and Javert shut him up with a withering glare.

Silence and secrecy was of the utmost importance now. Even now, Patron-Minette would have spies outside. A single word might be enough to give them away—

But what was that? As Javert turned back to watch the entrance to the Gorbeau hovel, he caught a glimpse of the philanthropist who was to be the victim in the little play. The man had opened the door to the hovel, and in a ray of sunshine, his hair gleamed a brilliant white.

Javert’s heart skipped a beat, a giant fist reaching inside his chest to clench around the organ. For a moment, he could not breathe.

He would have known this man anywhere. The victim who had been lured in by Jondrette, the philanthropist the lawyer had told him about, who had visited the Jondrettes with his daughter this morning, was no other than Jean Valjean.

Javert took an instinctive step forward. Then he ceased as suddenly as if he had run into an invisible wall.

He could not go after Valjean. If he ran into the Gorbeau tenement now, Valjean would be safe—but Patron-Minette would flee the second Javert alerted their spies by setting foot on the street.

Javert ground his teeth. What was to be done?

Jean Valjean was strong—stronger than any other man, despite his years. And yet, faced with Patron-Minette, whose arsenal of weapons and long list of crimes Javert was intimately aware of, what could strength avail him?

Something inside him trembled, and Javert, who had never before known fear, now felt the iron fist squeeze down harder around his heart until it felt that he would choke on the pain in his chest. He had to go after Valjean. He had to warn him.

And yet, by doing so, he would destroy his only chance of arresting the men who had dared to threaten Valjean…

“Inspector?” the man next to him whispered once more.

Javert forced his racing heart to calm, turning at last to face the man.

“Stay,” he heard himself saying as if from far away. He thrust one hand into his pocket, finding the reassuring shape of the gun. “I will go in myself. I don’t trust the lawyer, and now that the bourgeois is in their power, we must be very careful.”

“But—”

“Listen for my signal,” Javert said quietly, then nodded at a man he knew reasonably well from the handful of days he had spent in the Rue de Pontoise. “Rigaud is in command now. When you hear the shot, enter as planned.”

His heart was still beating loudly in his chest as he stared at the building across the street. There was no one to be seen—but Jondrette would have a look-out. Even if Javert had thought to come disguised, he would not make it into the building unobserved.

Not by the front entrance, at least…

Instead of walking towards the Gorbeau house, Javert turned into the opposite direction from the alley where they had been hidden. He crossed a yard and then ducked into a doorway. There, a man in a bedraggled, brown workingman’s coat gaped at him for a moment.

Javert pulled off his greatcoat and his hat and pushed them into the man’s arms, then nodded impatiently at the man’s clothes. After a moment, the spy eagerly complied, although his face was furrowed in confusion. Once, he parted his lips as if to speak, and Javert gave him a stern glare that immediately made his mouth snap shut.

Javert made certain that he had his pistol still on him, and then, the long visor of the man’s cap tugged deep into his face, he made his way out of the doorway with the slow, unsteady gait of the drunkard.

Even in this outfit, he knew that to go to the front door of the Gorbeau hovel would call for undue attention. Fortunately he knew the area well, and by way of several shady back alleys, he arrived eventually at a building at the back of the Gorbeau house—a tenement not quite as dilapidated as the house into which Jean Valjean had disappeared, but not by much.

Here, a small cook shop was situated, empty at this time of day but for a few stragglers. The presence of a man like Javert would not arouse too much attention here. Most importantly, he could pass unobserved into the wild space that could not be called a garden, which sprung up at the other side of the building and stretched to the backside of the Gorbeau house.

A few shacks stood there, and next to a thicket of thorny bushes, a rag picker had laid out his wares to dry. The man was not to be seen; instead, the clothes were watched over by a chained, ragged dog who followed Javert’s every step with angry eyes.

Not a human soul was to be seen. Nevertheless, Javert, who had picked up a bottle of the cook shop’s cheapest wine and a small parcel of gristly meat with a crust of bread, slowly weaved his way past bushes and shacks, pretending to pay attention to nothing but the bottle in his hand. Once or twice, he stumbled.

Then, when he reached a shadowed nook formed by the outhouse and the wall of the Gorbeau tenement, he leaned against the wall and slid to the ground, unwrapping the cheap meal and hungrily devouring it with the single-minded attention of a man who had not eaten in a day or two.

All the while, he paid attention to what was going on around him.

The dog, who had suspiciously watched him, had settled down again, its head turned towards the cook shop from which came the smell of cooked meat.

Once, someone came out of the shop, making his way over to the outhouse by the same wavering gait as Javert had. The wooden door was opened, then closed. A moment later, there was the sound of a stream of liquid being released, and Javert’s nose was assailed by the acrid smell of fresh piss.

Patiently, Javert waited until the door opened again a minute later. Drunkenly, the man made his way back to the cook shop, waving past bushes and chained dog, completely unaware of Javert, who had remained seated in the shadow all this time.

How much time had passed? Certainly Valjean would already be in the power of Jondrette…

Forcefully, Javert pushed that thought away. He could not be distracted now. Five more minutes passed, during which nothing stirred in the yard.

Once, he thought that he saw a movement on a roof; closer observation showed him soon that there, one of Patron-Minette’s outlooks was situated, a child—girl or boy, he could not say from the distance—in ragged, dirty clothes.

He waited until the outlook turned to survey the street on the other side of the house instead, and then he rose nonchalantly, making his way to the backdoor of the Gorbeau hovel with the easy determination of the drunkard, not a moment’s hesitation giving away the fist of terror that all this time had remained clenched around his heart.

Javert entered the house as if he belonged there. He moved without haste, although at any moment, the person on the roof could turn around and detect him. Once he was inside, he closed the door behind himself, not dared to exhale in relief. Instead, he stood frozen in the twilight that filled the corridor here at the back of the house.

Not a voice was to be heard, and there was no movement in the gloom stretching before him.

The Jondrette garret was on the third floor—as was the lawyer’s chamber, from which the goings-on might be observed. Now Javert shed the guise of the drunkard. Instead, moving as quickly and silently as possible, the gun in his hand hidden beneath his coat, he hastened up the stairs, taking care to step close to the wall to keep the old wood from creaking.

He nearly ran into one of the villains when he reached the second floor. Once more, fate came to his rescue, for at the same time as Javert turned the corner, a soft voice called down from the floor above, “He, the old cove looks to be putting up a fight, and Boulatruelle is drunk. Come quick.”

Quickly, Javert flinched back down around the corner, waiting as heavy steps hastened up the stairs above him. A moment later, he followed slowly. When he finally reached the third floor, a door fell shut—Panchaud, for Javert had immediately recognized the man known also as Printanier or Bigrenaille, had at last joined the rest of the brotherhood of ruffians.

Javert stared at the doorway at the end of the corridor, his fingers tightening against the gun. Even now, Valjean could be in danger, threatened by knife or pistol—and yet, to barge into such a gathering on his own, without backup, without having surveyed the situation, went against all the instincts of the policeman.

A heartbeat later, he had come to a decision, clenching his jaw with grim determination as he made his way towards the door to the lawyer’s chamber. Judging by the summoning of Panchaud, it appeared that Valjean had given him the minute of distraction Javert needed, for at this moment, distracted by the brewing fight, no one was left to watch the corridor.

Silently, Javert opened the door. The lawyer gaped at him with wide eyes, one of the small pistols Javert had given him clutched in his hand. Javert had surprised him in such a way that the booby of a lawyer had not even had time to aim it at him.

Now, Javert quickly stepped into the room and drew the door shut behind him. The boy’s eyes were wide with first terror, then relieved recognition, although Javert did not bother to stop for reassurance or explanation.

Instead, he joined the man on his bed—and there he immediately found the small hole which the man had described to him earlier. No sooner had he pressed his eye to the wall than they heard a sound from the outside. Someone was hastily pounding up the stairs which Javert had so silently climbed moments before.

One hand still clenched around his pistol, Javert pressed his face to the opening. And through the small hole, he saw a woman burst into the room on the other side of the wall.

“False address!” she cried, her face red—and then a man moved into view whom Javert well recognized.

It was Thénardier, the villainous innkeeper of Montfermeil, who had sought to murder them in their sleep, and had then menaced them in the hayloft where both he and Valjean had been saved by the company of gendarmes.

Now Thénardier moved to seat himself at a table, not speaking. Javert’s gaze moved towards where Jean Valjean sat tied to a chair, his heart clenching again as he took note of the way that Valjean was hopelessly outnumbered. What might have happened here if the lawyer hadn’t alerted him in time?

“A false address? What did you expect to gain by that?” Thénardier demanded coldly.

His eyes still on Valjean, Javert quietly freed his pistol.

“To gain time!” Valjean cried and stood, the ropes falling from his limbs.

Before Thénardier had time to draw his own weapon, Javert fired his gun into the air.


	75. Chapter 75

Valjean stood straight, unafraid and calm, even though he had not been able to cut through the rope that still bound his leg to the chair. He could not run—but that did not matter. What mattered was that he had won enough time to ensure that Cosette was out of danger. Thénardier did not know where they lived. And even if he were to try and find her in the Rue Plumet, Javert would be alerted and be able to protect her.

Thus, what happened to Jean Valjean in this garret today was of no importance.

Even now, he felt a faint twinge of regret that he had not found a way to send note to Javert—but there was little time for regret, and not much time for fear. Cosette was not wholly out of danger. Not until he could prove to Thénardier that no matter what tortures he might devise, Jean Valjean would rather die than allow Cosette to fall into his hands.

Valjean’s eyes fell onto the chisel which someone had pushed into the stove. It gleamed red-hot, the sight making the brand over his heart throb with sudden, remembered agony.

A drop of sweat ran down his face. Nevertheless he remained calm, reminding himself that even such pain could be borne and would pass. He would protect Cosette no matter what.

And then, out of nowhere, there was the deafening bang of a shot.

Chaos broke out. At first, Thénardier cried out in anger, blaming one of the villains waiting in the corner for foolishly firing their gun. As Valjean watched, Thénardier turned towards them to scold them angrily.

A second later, Thénardier had realized that none of them held a pistol—but that heartbeat had been enough for Valjean to bend down and use the tiny saw of blue steel, which old paranoia made him keep on his body, to saw through the final rope.

Even as he straightened again, Thénardier turned towards him, his face a white mask of rage.

“Grab him!” the inn-keeper shouted. “Don’t let him escape.”

It would only take a few steps to lunge towards the window. And what would await beyond? Near it, Jean Valjean could see a rolled-up ladder of rope.

But already, the man called Bigrenaille rushed towards it, while the man with the axe came rushing towards Valjean, the weapon raised threateningly. Thénardier was shouting again. Valjean watched them quietly, not raising a single finger against them, but hoping beyond hope that there might be a way to push past them and make it out through the door.

That was when the door swung open, crashing into the wall on the opposite side. Through the open door, in strode Javert, his teeth bared in a smile of rage. Valjean felt the fist of fear that had clenched around his heart loosen a little at the sight.

“Let’s not be hasty,” Javert said, pointing a pistol at Thénardier, who had frozen and turned towards him when the door had opened so suddenly.

“Bigrenaille, step away from that window. I heard there was a man in need of charity here; why, I come to bring you good news, Jondrette—or should I say Fabantou the comedian, or perhaps Thénardier? I have a room for you, and clothes and food, and you won’t have to pay a single sou for your fine, new garret in La Force. What do you say?”

“I say you’re all alone,” Thénardier said, when a moment had passed and no policemen had rushed into the room after Javert. “All alone, when there are six of us.”

“Wrong,” Javert declared, his grin widening.

Valjean, too, had ceased to move, his heart thudding in his chest. Thénardier was right—he did not know how Javert had come to be here, but he was on his own, and even though he was armed, even now the man with the axe raised his weapon threateningly.

“But never mind, Thénardier, there’s no need for manners in La Force.” Thus speaking, Javert took a confident step into the room. His pistol was still aimed straight at Thénardier—but now, from the corner of his eye, Valjean saw his head turn just a little, as if he desired to reassure himself that Valjean was still well.

At that moment, there was a loud crash coming from Valjean’s right. When he looked up in surprise, he saw himself faced with the female Thénardier, who had ripped a length of wood from the wall and was brandishing it now as a weapon—aiming not at Javert, but at Valjean’s own head.

Just in time, Valjean managed to throw himself to the floor. The plank cut through the air where moments ago, Valjean’s head had been, and then, slipping free from her grasp, continued to hurtle through the room until it hit Bigrenaille in the chest.

The man released a grunt of angered pain, even though he did not stagger—but that moment of pandemonium had been what Thénardier had been waiting for, for he had now drawn a gun himself, aiming it not at Javert, but at where Valjean was crouching on the ground.

“I see how it is,” Thénardier said, his lips pulling back in a smile of mockery. “The old con is your accomplice, inspector—yes, it was you who took the money, I well remember that. And I think you would not like it if I shot him.”

Valjean’s heart clenched as for what certainly had to be the first time in Javert’s life, the gun in his hand trembled.

Without thinking, knowing only that he would not be a weapon to be used against Javert, Valjean threw himself towards the window. His aim was only to give Javert a moment of distraction, for he did not think that there would be enough time to make his escape—but just then a hoarse voice cried from outside the window, “It’s the police!”

At the same second, the sound of boots could be heard rushing across the wooden floor of the corridor. Before the first of Thénardier’s companions had made it to the window, men began spilling in behind Javert in the uniform of the police, their guns drawn.

Once more there were curses and cries of protest, but Valjean had only eyes for Javert. He held his pistol pointed at Thénardier, although his eyes still rested on Valjean, only the widened pupils betraying a fear Valjean had never before seen on his face.

“Now let’s all behave; we aren’t schoolboys here,” Javert said a moment later, drawing himself up to his full height once more. His gun was still aimed at Thénardier, who had bared his teeth in the grimace of a trapped animal when he saw himself surrounded by Javert’s men.

Even now, Thénardier might have shot in the desperate hope to make an escape—but Panchaud, rushing from the corner towards the window himself, had come in between him and Valjean, blocking Thénardier's line of sight.

And then a cudgel came down on Thénardier’s arm with enough force that the man dropped the pistol with a cry. As luck would have it, no shot was loosened when the weapon dropped to the floor with a clatter. A heartbeat later, Thénardier himself was handcuffed, while two policemen grabbed hold of Panchaud and pulled him back inside through the window by his trousers, where he had just sought to take flight.

“Take care of these gentlemen here,” Javert said as he surveyed the scene. “I shall look after their victim.”

Thus, his heart still racing at the sound of handcuffs snapping into place left and right all around him, Valjean found himself gently helped up from the floor and led to the same chair to which, not so long ago, the ruffians had tied him.

“Please, sit,” Javert said respectfully. “You are safe now. We received a report that a man was to be robbed.”

While Valjean sat and watched as one by one, the members of Thénardier’s group of villains were led out of the room, he tried to calm his pounding heart. He barely dared to raise his eyes to Javert, certain that any look would give away the truth to the attending policemen: that he was Jean Valjean; that he might be a victim here, but that the courts had accused him of many crimes; that all of his sacrifices and the agonizing removal of the brand had not been enough; that at any moment, someone would demand to see his chest and bring to light that old shame once more…

But little by little, the room grew quieter, until at last, it was only him and Javert, who sent out the last of his lieutenants to see if he could find a trace of a lawyer, who had vanished from the chamber next door.

In the following silence, Valjean stared at Javert. His mouth was dry. His body ached, but he barely felt it.

And then Javert crumpled to his knees before him, Javert’s large hand clenching around his collar, and almost, Valjean was drawn into a desperate kiss.

But there was still the sound of feet running up and down the stairs, the voices of policemen echoing along the hallway, and so they simply stared at each other, not speaking.

Javert’s chest was heaving. Now, suddenly, Valjean saw that there were deep lines etched into his face. Swallowing, he raised a hand, touching very gently one line next to Javert’s mouth.

At the touch, a groan escaped Javert. “You are unharmed?” he said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

Silently, Valjean nodded.

Javert’s hand rose to cover his. With trembling fingers, he drew it to his mouth. Valjean gasped when Javert’s lips brushed his knuckles.

A moment later, Javert rose.

“We will leave as soon as they are gone,” he murmured. “We’ll talk at home.”

“Thénardier knows me—” Valjean began, but Javert impatiently shook his head.

“He doesn’t know that you were my slave then. Even if he knew: Jean Valjean is dead. Your papers are in order. The matter is very simple: he sought to blackmail you. I will write up the report myself.”

Valjean felt as if in a dream as he slowly surveyed the room. Once Thénardier had sprung his trap, he had thought of nothing but Cosette’s safety. And then, all of a sudden, Javert had entered the room like an avenging angel, his eyes burning, weapon drawn.

While Valjean had been in Thénardier’s power, he had not even dared to think of Javert. Rescue had seemed impossible, for how was Javert to know? Neither Valjean nor Cosette had recognized the innkeeper on their morning visit to the garret, and even if Javert had returned home early from work, Cosette would have had no reason to alarm him.

“How did you find me?” Valjean said in wonder.

Again Javert shook his head. Then there was once more the sound of steps, and a moment later, Javert had risen to his feet—just in time before the door opened and the lieutenant returned.

“Sir, there is no trace of the lawyer, and the portress doesn’t know where he might have gone.”

“Ask in the cook-shop around the corner,” Javert said curtly, “and search his room, if he doesn’t return. He cannot be an accomplice—why warn us? Still, to vanish like this—inquiries will have to be made with the board of lawyers, although to run from a fight is not a crime.”

The lieutenant nodded and made to turn around.

“And send up someone else to search this room,” Javert commanded. “I’m taking the gentleman back to his home, so that his doctor can look at him while I take his report.”

Again Valjean felt a moment of embarrassment as the agent’s eyes came to rest on him—but there was no reaction on the man’s face at all, only a look of respect as he nodded.

“Of course, sir,” the man said, and then he left—without further demands after Valjean’s identity.

Valjean breathed a sigh of relief. Then Javert took hold of his arm to help him up.

“How did you manage to break free?” Javert murmured pensively. “Never mind, you will have to tell me at home.”

Sheepishly, Valjean bent to retrieve the hollow sou from where it had rolled beneath the bed. Once they had made it into the carriage without further agents stopping them, he dropped it wordlessly into Javert’s hand, whose nostrils flared as he stared at it.

“I didn’t know you carried such things with you,” he said.

Embarrassment welled up in Valjean. He had not hidden the coin from Javert out of some fear that Javert might chain him—they were long past such thoughts. Yet all the same, how could he have given voice to that old terror that had gnawed deep into his bone-marrow, which had him ever prepared for recapture and made him carry the tools of trade of the bagnard beneath his gentleman’s garb even after long years of freedom?

Javert looked up from the coin to stare at him instead. There was something slightly puzzled on his face. Did he imagine even now Valjean making friends among the underbelly of Paris, trading tools and information with convicts and thieves, and returning home to Javert’s bed with Javert none the wiser?

Valjean took a deep breath. No, surely that was not what Javert was thinking. After these many years, after what had come to pass between them, Javert no longer thought him the man he had been.

And while it was true that certain things had been acquired by him—the hollow coin and the tiny saw within, the forged papers, old disguises—this made him no more of a villain than Thénardier’s disguise as Jondrette had made him an artist.

After a moment, Javert dropped the coin back into his hand without a word. Flushing a little, Valjean hurriedly hid it inside a pocket once more.

“Your hands,” Javert then said.

Puzzled by the command, Valjean hesitantly held them out, searching Javert’s face, which remained unreadable as Javert’s fingers curled around his wrists.

A second later, coat and cuff were pushed back, and Javert exhaled loudly. His thumb drew along the old scars left by shackles. Valjean trembled.

“You’re hurt,” Javert said, his voice low, “Why did you not say so?” 

It took Valjean a moment to realize what he meant.

The skin was reddened by the rope which the villains had used to tie him. Although Valjean had managed to saw though much of it, it had taken strength to tear what remained. The coarse rope had rubbed his skin raw in places, circles of red skin enclosing his wrists next to the old circles of white scar tissue.

“It’s nothing,” Valjean said, instinctively making to pull back his hands.

Javert’s grip on him tightened, and after an uncertain heartbeat, Valjean exhaled and surrendered to Javert’s hold on him.

“And they would have hurt you worse if I hadn’t come in time.” Javert’s thumb carefully trailed along a band of red. 

Valjean gave him a wary look. “How did you know—”

Javert’s lips pulled back to reveal his teeth in a fierce grin. It was the old smile of the dog who had caught the scent of his prey—but for once, it was not Jean Valjean himself who had brought such satisfaction onto Javert’s face.

“There was a lawyer who lived in the chamber next to the garret where they held you. He overheard your conversation this morning and then came to alert me about the plot. And to think that all these weeks, I had been on the hunt for Panchaud, Montparnasse and Demi-Liard, only for Providence to drop them into my lap…”

“Then Cosette is safe.” Relief took hold of Valjean, and he relaxed with his wrists still held in Javert’s hands.

“They do not know where we live?”

Valjean mutely shook his head in answer.

“Good,” Javert muttered. “To think it was Thénardier himself—well, now that we have him it will be his head, and good riddance. I have not forgotten how he came to murder me that night in my sleep. Who knows how many others have suffered just that fate in his inn?”

Valjean could not bring himself to rejoice at the thought of Thénardier’s death. Yet even so, to have Thénardier in jail meant that Cosette was safe from his machinations, as much as he might pity that poor family.

“You must be more careful,” Javert said, quiet and fierce as the carriage continued to rattle over cobblestone. As they took a turn, Javert reached out to steady himself with one hand. The other reached out for Valjean’s lapels, releasing his wrists at last. A heartbeat later, Valjean found himself pulled against Javert’s chest, Javert’s mouth on his, his lips as hungry and desperate as his hands had been gentle earlier.

Dizzy, Valjean allowed himself to sink into the offered comfort for a moment. He wound his arm around Javert’s shoulders.

As the carriage continued to sway over cobblestones, he pressed himself against Javert, opening himself to the intrusion of the hot tongue. Resting against Javert’s warmth, it was easy to forget the past hours of fear and pain and the sacrifice he had been about to make, Javert’s possessive touch as familiar as it was comforting at that moment.


	76. Chapter 76

It was late when Javert returned from work. That evening, he had sought to find several informants who had suddenly and suspiciously gone quiet. It had taken many hours, but at last he had found one of them—a beggar who usually plied his trade by the well near Saint-Sulpice, and who had once alerted him to Valjean’s whereabouts.

This time, Javert had desired news about a notorious band of criminals who were said to have shifted their activities to just the area which his informants had so suddenly abandoned.

Javert had not been able to get much information out of the man—pressure would have to be increased, he thought, but not by so much as to make the man try to vanish again. Still, surely the law was to be feared more than a band of ruffians.

The Rue Plumet was quiet when he walked along it with fast, long steps, his greatcoat billowing as he descended on the house like a grim specter. The sight of Javert would have set many criminals quailing; thieves and cut-throat alike were wont to flee as soon as Javert’s shadow fell across the entrance of a dark alley.

And yet, had any of them been able to see Javert’s face at this moment, they would have experienced a great shock, for Inspector Javert was smiling as he strode towards the gate.

The smile was still on his face when he quietly closed the gate behind him. In the house, which could be seen through the trees, he had spied a solitary light: a candle was burning in one window.

Although it was close to midnight, Jean Valjean was still awake.

Javert’s smile widened until his teeth were visible, a sight known to instill terror in the heart of any man making a living in the shadows of the city. Javert stood still for a moment, peering up at the solitary light in the window above from beneath the dark trees.

At that moment, a strange noise aroused his suspicion.

Somewhere in the darkness to his left, where the garden spread which Valjean tended so lovingly to during daytime, something had rustled in the bushes.

It could have been an animal. They had foxes visiting them at night, hedgehogs hunting and mating during the twilight hours, and a pair of shy squirrels which lived in an oak at the back of their garden.

Still, something about the noise had made Javert start, and he remained still and silent as he peered into the darkness.

Everything was silent now. There was no more rustling.

But then, just when Javert had begun to relax, there was another sound—still to his left, but now behind him, heading towards the street.

Javert turned. It was too dark to make out much—but was that not a shadow moving behind the bushes?

Silently, he moved closer. Beneath his coat, he had grasped hold of his cudgel. If this was a thief thinking he could make sport of this home, Javert would give him a surprise he would not soon forget.

A moment later, with his cudgel drawn, Javert moved forward.

Another sound reached his ears—yet this time, it came from the direction of the house. A moment of indecision came over him.

Were thieves even now breaking into the house? Had Thénardier found their home after all? The inn-keeper had managed to escape La Force, undoing Javert’s successful arrest of Patron-Minette—but Javert had thought the villain too smart to come after Javert himself, for if the man had found out Valjean’s address, then Thénardier’s spies would surely also know that Javert himself lived here with him.

It was a damn nuisance that the man had escaped. Furthermore, to this day Javert could not help the suspicion festering inside his already so beleaguered heart that there had been no mistake, that there had been help from within the police itself, and that perhaps even his superiors had been aware—and in support of—the policemen of the Rue de Pontoise allowing Claquesous to slip from the hackney-coach on its way to La Force.

Javert clenched his teeth, his mind made up by the threat Patron-Minette might still pose for Valjean. Silently, he hurried towards the house—but before he had made it there, there was the soft sound of a door drawn shut, so soft as to be almost unnoticeable.

When he reached the house moments later, there was no sign of an intruder. The door was locked from the inside when he tried it—as it should be, at this time of night.

Had perhaps Cosette, unable to sleep, stepped outside for a moment? Was that the sound he had heard, and the shadow he had seen earlier a figment of his imagination?

No, he thought, his agitation growing. Someone had been there, hiding from him in the darkness. Perhaps not Patron-Minette then—perhaps simply a thief.

Hurriedly, he made his way back towards the gate. The garden was empty. When he stepped outside, the street was deserted as well. He looked up and down the pavement, then walked along their gate, but in the pale light of the moon, he could not find a sign of an intruder.

“What a darkness,” he muttered irritably, looking up to give the next lamp a disgruntled look. This stretch between the gate and the end of their garden was just in the space between two lit lamps, where the gloom was at its deepest. Javert scowled at the ground.

He would have to return once the sun had risen to ascertain that no one had tried to enter their premises. And he would have to speak to the police, for surely it would not hurt to have them pay attention to this street during the night, whether Patron-Minette had their eyes on them or not.

Having so assured himself that no thief was hiding in their garden, Javert walked back inside once more, making certain that the gate was correctly locked before he entered the house. The front door was locked as it should be. And inside, once he lit a lamp, everything was peaceful and quiet, the women asleep, and Valjean, perhaps, quietly awaiting in his bedroom.

Despite the heat that filled Javert at the thought of Valjean in his nightshirt, the cotton so soft and worn that the shape of his body beneath could be glimpsed through it, Javert took a good ten minutes to walk through the house and make certain that all doors and windows were locked and barred. But everything was as it should be, Toussaint having done her task as reliably as every night, and Javert could find no sign of a disturbance.

Finally satisfied with what he had found, he moved into his own bedchamber. There he undressed and made use of the pitcher of water Toussaint had left him to wash himself.

At last, the door to his room opened. The house was still dark. In the garden outside, an owl hooted.

Valjean came closer, a sheepish look on his face. “I was worried. It took you so long.”

Javert did not hear his words. By moving towards him, Valjean had stepped in front of the lamp he had lit; now, with that gentle illumination, Javert could make out the darker shape of Valjean’s genitals through the worn nightshirt, the movement of strong thighs causing the grey, coarse curls at the root to press against the thin fabric.

Javert’s mouth was dry. He had to swallow before he could speak.

“I thought I heard a sound when I came in. It’s nothing,” he said and reached out for Valjean.

Willingly, Valjean let himself be drawn down onto the bed. Even when Javert came to rest upon him, his hand sliding beneath Valjean’s shirt to trail up a strong thigh, Valjean smiled, reaching out to wrap an arm around Javert’s shoulder.

Javert bent over him hungrily. He pressed him down into the bed, and with a soft gasp, Valjean yielded his mouth up to him. The strong body beneath Javert remained pliant, even as his hand found its aim between Valjean’s legs. Only a soft gasp against his lips marked the moment when his fingers brushed the tight pouch there, then trailed further upward to tease along Valjean’s prick.

Valjean was breathing heavily. In the light of the lamp, his eyes gleamed, soft and dark as he surrendered himself to Javert’s hands as he had always done.

And just as every other time, his surrender only caused Javert’s hunger to grow. The hunter’s instinct sent lust raging through his blood at finding his prey willing and warm beneath him, mixed with the more sober gratification of finding that Valjean still desired the same as he did.

“Be mine,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, and at his words, Valjean trembled.

Javert reached for the hem of his shirt, and then, with the light of the lamp illuminating every part of his body for Valjean to see, he boldly drew it off. His prick was hard, flushed with blood and jutting eagerly forward. He ignored it as he reached out for Valjean’s shirt instead.

“Sit,” he commanded, and Valjean obeyed without protest, even though his chest was rising and falling rapidly as Javert drew off Valjean’s shirt and let it drop to the floor.

Valjean’s prick was dark with blood, rising from its nest of curls. Javert looked down, allowing himself to take in the sight before he reached out and rested his hands against Valjean’s chest.

At the touch, a groan escaped Valjean. Javert’s hands drew upwards, sliding across hot skin until he could bury his fingers in the carpet of copious hair that covered Valjean’s chest. Slowly, he stroked it, fingers splayed to cherish the feeling of Valjean’s broad chest, Valjean’s heart hammering against his palm.

Then Valjean reached out in turn, resting a hand against Javert’s own heart. Slowly, Valjean’s fingers began to trail down, brushing his stomach and continuing on, until at last the found the brand in the shape of a _V_ there at the inside of Javert’s thigh.

Valjean pressed his fingers to it. His chest was still heaving. They were looking at each other, and there was some emotion in Valjean’s eyes—as if Valjean desired to speak, yet did not dare to.

A moment later, Valjean shuddered beneath his touch and moved away—but only to slide to his knees next to the bed, so that he could rest his head in Javert’s lap. His fingers were still pressed to the brand; now, breathing heavily, he pressed his lips to it instead.

His cheek brushed against Javert’s hard shaft. A groan escaped Javert’s throat—and yet it had not been brought about by that touch. Instead, Valjean’s lips had fastened around the brand, as they had so long ago around the wound the poisoned knife had left, and the tip of his tongue had touched Javert’s skin with a heat reminiscent of the blade Valjean had used to sear Javert’s skin and burn out the poison.

Javert’s hands were trembling. He buried them in Valjean’s hair. He did not speak, and Valjean did not move, remaining in place for a long moment, his lips moving gently against the sensitive skin of Javert’s thigh.

At last he drew back just enough to be able to look up at Javert. His hands trembled where they rested against Javert’s knees. But there was no uncertainty in his face at all when he leaned forward again, his eyelids lowering as he pressed a gentle kiss to where Javert’s length stood rigid and red.

Another groan escaped Javert. Valjean’s lips were very hot, and as Javert watched, Valjean pressed another kiss to his member, further down, and another. Every gentle caress made Javert burn, but despite his need, he held completely still, breathlessly observing as Valjean slowly continued downward. At last, Valjean reached the root of his prick, his nose buried in Javert’s dark curls as he pressed an unhurried kiss to where the skin of his scrotum stretched.

His balls contracting, Javert felt his shaft jerk. With a desperate groan, he reached down to clutch at himself, watching as Valjean moved to press another kiss to the rigid column that stood from between his thighs.

Gasping for breath, Javert leaned back on one arm, resting the other on Valjean’s head.

“Will you take it into your mouth?” he asked, his prick pulsing eagerly at his words.

Without hesitation, Valjean’s mouth came to the naked crown, lips closing around him to entrap him in heat.

“The deuce,” Javert cursed, nearly collapsing back onto the bed as his hips ached to thrust up. “That is… that is good.”

Valjean’s tongue was wet as it hesitantly pressed against him, and the sensation was enough to make him bite his lip to keep from crying out, grasping himself tightly again to keep from spilling at the last moment. 

“Careful,” he gasped “careful, or I will…”

“Do you want to?” Valjean drew back a little to speak, looking up at him with dark, shameless eyes and reddened lips. His cheeks were flushed as well, but he did not move back, his lips swollen.

“The deuce,” Javert muttered again, his heart thumping at the sight, “do I… Of course I want to!”

His eyelids fluttering shut, Valjean leaned forward again, and Javert’s cock gave another throb of need. Again Valjean’s head bent, white locks spilling across Javert’s lap as warm lips willingly kissed the aching crown of his arousal, then parted to allow his prick to slide inside.

The motion was slow and hesitant, but even so it took all of Javert’s willpower to not mindlessly thrust in. Distantly, he could hear himself panting, the sound like that of a great beast. His balls were drawn up tight, his hips lifting off the bed ever so slightly to push deeper inside—and then he buried his hands in Valjean’s hair and curled up over him. Desperately, Javert groaned as his balls emptied themselves with spurt after spurt, Valjean’s tongue and breath still hot against his prick even as he flooded his mouth with his release.


	77. Chapter 77

It took Javert long minutes to recover—a time which Valjean did not mind, despite the way his own body was still tight with arousal. His mouth ached a little, his lips sore from the stretch, but it had not been so bad. No—there had been a little shame in it, but that was easily outweighed by Javert’s obvious pleasure, and it had not been so bad to kneel and swallow Javert’s spend when Javert had been so overcome by it. Did not Javert give him similar pleasure when he made use of his body? It was not so shameful to repay some of that pleasure, even if he did it on his knees.

And once Valjean was back on the bed, resting against Javert, he could not help but feel a different sort of pleasure rise inside him at the way Javert looked at him, who seemed still too dazed to speak.

Was this what Javert saw when he claimed Valjean? Did Valjean look like that when pleasure overwhelmed him?

Javert’s hand rose to his hair, smoothing back a stray strand.

“What about you?” Javert asked. In the light of the lamp, his body still gleamed with sweat.

Valjean found himself flushing. “You know what I like.” Then, after a moment, he bravely continued, “You told me once that you think I’m the sort of man who enjoys belonging to another. You know you were right.”

“Well, well” Javert said. Outside, the wind was rustling the leaves. Despite his exhaustion, Javert’s smile widened with satisfaction. “Are you then.”

His hand came to rest against Valjean’s chest once more, stroking him languidly as Valjean’s heart continued to hammer against his ribcage.

“There’s just one problem. It’s going to take me a while now to give you what you want.”

Javert laughed, the sound low and rusty and satisfied as Valjean’s flush deepened when he dropped his gaze to where Javert’s prick now rested soft and spent against his thigh.

“But then, were this the bagne, and were you mine…”

“I’d wait for as long as you wanted me,” Valjean readily supplied.

Again Javert laughed, breathless and drily amused, drawing Valjean to rest against him, his back against Javert’s chest.

“Would you,” Javert murmured, his hand ignoring Valjean’s arousal to cup his aching balls instead. “Yes, you would.”

Idly, his thumb rubbed against Valjean’s testicles, nudging them here and there while Valjean groaned.

“You would have been mine then,” Javert whispered hoarsely into his ear. “If I’d been there with you, you would have been mine. You know it.”

“I know it.” Valjean was breathing heavily as Javert coaxed his balls away from his body.

Satisfied, Javert chuckled. “Was he a gentle teacher, your first chainmate?”

A sweat drop ran down Valjean’s brow as Javert’s fingers continued to torment the sensitive scrotum, but he made no move to escape the tormenting fingers. “Gentle enough,” Valjean gasped as he arched. “Gentler than others would have been.”

“I would not have been gentle with you,” Javert murmured into his ear, his breath hot like that of a wolf at his neck. “And you know you would have been mine regardless.”

Valjean moaned, his balls pulsing in Javert’s grasp. “I would have been yours,” he desperately agreed as he arched.

Again Javert chuckled. Then, at last, the constricting pressure around his testes ceased.

“There wouldn’t have been oil,” Javert murmured as he stretched towards the nightstand. A moment later, his fingers were between Valjean’s buttocks, slick and hot. “Even so, I would have had you. And you would have been glad of it.”

“Javert,” Valjean groaned, Javert’s fantasy falling away as Javert at last pushed inside him, hard once more.

“This is what you like, isn’t it?” Javert was panting against his ear, his length thick and rigid inside Valjean. It pressed against the place that made hot pleasure rush up Valjean’s spine. “This is what you want.”

Helpless, Valjean arched, fingers digging into the sheets as Javert thrust into him, the pleasure sharp like splintered glass. Then Javert’s hand grasped hold of his thigh and pressed it towards Valjean’s chest, so that he slid even deeper inside at the next thrust.

“You would have been mine,” Javert gasped against his neck. “Say it. Say it.”

“I would have been yours,” Valjean panted obediently. His eyes were tightly shut, every muscle in his body tensing at the friction of Javert moving within him. The smallest motion made Javert pressing against him in such a way that Valjean entire body trembled, every nerve aflame.

Again Javert groaned, the sound nearly that of a dying beast. Then there was a rush of heat inside him, Javert’s teeth scraping against his shoulder, and Valjean grasped hold of his aching shaft with a desperate moan, pulse after pulse of his release splashing against his stomach.

Long moments later, Javert’s teeth were replaced by the tender touch of his lips, and his hand curved around Valjean’s hips to cradle his softened genitals, wringing one last, tired moan from Valjean’s lips.

Now that the rush of pleasure was past, Javert’s words troubled him—or perhaps it was his own ready surrender to it that suddenly seemed troubling.

It was true that lying in his bed with Javert, surrendering to him, was something that pleased him as well as it pleased Javert. It was true as well that there was a certain, unsettling pleasure in the thought of Javert commanding him just as Boucard had commanded him. Perhaps the fantasy of it, here in their house in the Rue Plumet, was harmless enough. And yet, how could he think such things when Javert had never been the one chained—when Javert had been jailer, not comforter, during those long, dark years when the embrace of his chainmate was the only escape from misery?

“Javert,” he murmured at last, his voice rough with exertion and weariness. “In all those years since—I never even thought of what I left behind in Toulon. You know that?”

Javert was still breathing heavily against his back, the air damp and hot. Javert was still inside him, the hand that cradled Valjean’s balls and soft cock as comforting as it was possessive.

“I know that,” Javert said after a moment.

Valjean exhaled. Then he reached down to cover Javert’s hand with his own—not to pull it away, but to lightly rest it on Javert’s hand, his fingertips against Javert’s knuckles.

“Even if I wasn’t yours then… I’m yours now,” Valjean said softly, and Javert moved to press a kiss to his nape, not moving out of him, not taking his hand away.

“I know,” Javert said. “I know.”

***

“No. Absolutely not. I forbid it,” Javert said.

He scowled at Valjean from where he stood by the door, ferocious whiskers quivering with outrage.

“I’m afraid you have no say in the matter.” Valjean held out the letter. “See, there is a document with a seal and a signature. I’m to serve in the tenth legion of the National Guard, there’s no getting around that.”

“Nonsense,” Javert said. “For one thing, you’re too old.”

“Not according to my new papers.”

Again Javert scowled at him. “Well then, surely that can be changed—”

“It’s too late for that,” Valjean said calmly. “And you will remember that you agreed that a different age will make it harder for someone to make a connection to Jean Valjean.”

Javert bared his teeth like a peeved tiger. “Isn’t forgery and perjury enough? Must we add such blatant mockery of authority to the list of crimes?”

“I pay my taxes, Javert,” Valjean said. “Ultime Fauchelevent is a man of fifty years. And so I must serve in the tenth legion. It would be a crime to refuse the summons. And do you suggest I do not pay tax?”

“No,” Javert snarled, then began pacing with another ferocious scowl. He gave the uniform a baleful look, which Toussaint had hung on the door after letting out the seams at the shoulder for a better fit.

“It’s not right, and you know it.”

“It’s an afternoon here and there,” Valjean murmured. “I’m an old man. Four times a year I go, I mount guard, I leave. No one is harmed by that deception.”

“Just as no one was harmed when you let them appoint you mayor in Montreuil?” Javert scoffed. “Morals, Valjean. The law. We can’t just brush these aside as we please. There are some things that cause irrevocable harm. You think you can bend a rule here and there, claiming that there’s no consequence, but I tell you, to flout even one law destabilizes the very pillars society rests on. Soon, such things become a habit, the marble column of the law no more than an iron bar, which a strong hand might force to bend and squeeze past. And then, like mice coming out of the bushes, such openings attract the sort of men who will take advantage, morals and manners devoured by sharp teeth.”

A smile tugged on Valjean’s lips as he watched Javert pace back and forth. “All that from an afternoon here and there of me playing the bourgeois?”

“Do not think that I don’t know what you’re doing,” Javert said with an accusing look. “You’re playing the bourgeois for her. You’d like nothing better than to wear that uniform and take her out to walk in the park on a Sunday; or, better yet, perhaps to wear the uniform of a general, to have her no longer watch those officers come parading down the street but look at only you in admiration instead; to—”

“Enough,” Valjean said shakily. He felt cold; Javert’s words had found a target that made him flinch, the words sinking hooks deep into a hidden, selfish part of him that he had thought too well buried to be retrieved by another.

Javert was not in the wrong. That was what made the words sting, leaving such a surprising, bitter aftertaste as he had not felt since those days when Javert had kept him in chains.

Now Javert came closer. His mouth had narrowed; he still looked displeased.

Valjean met his eyes with sudden belligerence. “Will you advise me then to break the law? To do one thing, one has to do the other. To live here as we do, I must pay my taxes, and so must also do my duty in the guard. There is no choice, Javert, you know that.”

Javert laughed, the sound of it harsh and broken as he turned away from Valjean to pace towards the window. Then, as if a sudden mood had struck him, he came striding back towards Valjean in three long steps that carried him until he stood pressed chest to chest against Valjean, his hand catching hold of Valjean’s collar.

“There was a choice. In the beginning, there was a choice. That was where I went wrong. I should have said no to the house—no to those dresses and bonnets and silken shoes. I could have found new lodgings. Yes—I’m just as much to blame as you. Why I listened to you then I’ll never understand.”

“There was no choice,” Valjean said raggedly, thinking with horror of bringing Cosette into Javert’s small apartment, where surely it would have been impossible to keep any of the secrets from her that existed between them.

Javert’s lips twisted with bitterness. “Because you gave me no choice. And see where it has led.”

Angrily, Javert turned away again, heading straight towards the door. A moment before his hand reached out for the handle, Valjean, his heart pounding in his chest with a sudden terror, found himself taking a step after him.

Then he halted. Within him, a confused longing swirled, all intertwined with an old hurt which had never truly healed.

“Perhaps I gave you no choice,” he said softly. “But it was the first time _I_ had a choice.”

Javert’s shoulders tensed at his words. Valjean stared at his back. He had clenched his fingers so tightly his nails were biting into his palm. His throat hurt; suddenly, he was ashamed of his words, and ashamed of those old memories they had dug up.

For the time of a heartbeat, Javert stood frozen in front of the door. Then his hand took hold of the handle, and a moment later, he was gone from the room, the door pulled shut behind him decisively.

Valjean stared at the closed door, his heart echoing in his throat. He felt a strange pressure inside his head; when he looked down at his hand, he saw to his great surprise that it was trembling.

Slowly, he made his way back towards the settee. Then he sat down, hurting and confused, for this pain, which was so unlike the pain of the Luxembourg incident, ached in much the same place, deep inside his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Information about Valjean's National Guard legion from <http://kainosite.tumblr.com/post/164486587055/the-organization-of-the-national-guard>, thanks for all the research!


	78. Chapter 78

For two hours Javert had paced in his bedroom. Not naturally given to such distress as caused by the tempestuous disobedience of his own mind, Javert had little patience for the niggling sting of doubt—even now, years after Valjean had first caused such upheaval as to destabilize the very foundations of his soul. Forced by forces too great to resist, he had little by little learned to accept the presence of doubt in his mind, although he detested the sensation, which seemed antithetical to what a moral, upstanding man should feel as he went about his life.

Thus, where another man might have used the night after such a disagreement to weigh his options, playing out the argument he had had with Valjean in his mind until coming to some compromise that might preserve the life he had come to know and appreciate, he quickly tired of it. After only two hours of such torment, Javert bared his teeth in disgust at his own dallying, and thus stormed into Valjean’s bedroom once more, hair disheveled from when he had pulled on it in agony, and indecently clad in nothing but his nightshirt.

Valjean, in contrast, showed no sign of any such agony. Quietly composed, he sat in his chair by the window. A candle was burning; there was an open book on his desk and a copper crucifix before him. In the light of the candle, his white hair had taken on a golden hue, and when he turned to face Javert, there was something angelic about his stillness, reinforced by the quiet pain in his eyes.

“Javert,” Valjean said softly. There were lines of pain around his mouth and his eyes were wary.

How had that foolish man whiled away these hours Javert had spent in the torment of his own, disobedient mind? Had he indulged himself by imagining how Javert would force him to end this charade, had he come to the sad conclusion of willingly giving up his freedom—and his life, in consequence—as Javert led him away in chains to be a prisoner once more?

The thought was enough to cause a new fury to bubble up inside Javert.

Was it not enough that Javert had again and again betrayed all that he had believed in for this man? After all these years, had he truly not yet earned Valjean’s trust?

“If you were thinking about me acting the villain in this little piece,” Javert said bitterly, “think again. I refuse to be the cross you martyr yourself on. Go do your duty in the guard then. Go wear your uniform and play the bourgeois for the girl, for all I care.”

“Javert,” Valjean said again, and then fell silent. From his chair, he watched Javert, his expression unreadable. At last, he offered, “I don’t intend to deceive anyone. I will be careful; I will not speak to anyone there, and—”

“But that doesn’t matter, don’t you see?” Javert tugged violently at his whiskers as he began pacing again. “Your intent! As though your intent were a matter of the law! But for a convict to play a bourgeois—you have my respect, isn’t that enough for you? Must you always ask for more; must you deceive until honorable men praise your name, until the king himself pins the silver cross of the Legion of Honor on you—“

Valjean had risen, although he had not moved closer to Javert, lines of pain around his mouth. “I denied the Legion of Honor when it was offered to me,” he reminded Javert calmly, although his voice had gained a rare sharpness.

“So you did,” Javert said after a moment, taken aback by the reminder.

In Montreuil, it had seemed to him but one more proof that there was something strange about Madeleine, this elector with a workingman’s rough hands, who had set himself even above the king in his denial of such honor.

Now, at last, when he pondered that incident and the reclusive form of the factory owner who had roused his suspicions, all which had once made his hunter’s heart beat faster with that distant scent of blood suddenly seemed illuminated by a new light.

“That was done well,” Javert could not help but admit. “To deceive a town is one thing—but you’re right, Valjean, a part of you knew your place even then.”

In the light of the lamp, the lines around Valjean’s mouth were bitter, but he did not protest.

“You have my respect; let that be enough,” Javert said relentlessly. “A quiet life, your work of charity, even the church: yes, that is all well and good. But there can be no place in society for you and me beyond that. I will not stand for it, Valjean, do you hear me? Let this be the end. Be happy here, with what you have. Isn’t this enough?”

After a moment, Valjean bent his head in surrender.

“Very well,” he said quietly, and if there was still bitterness in him, it was not audible in his voice. “A quiet life in this house, hidden away from all eyes in our garden. That is enough for me.” He hesitated again, and then, at last, he raised his eyes to meet Javert’s gaze, his mouth still pained but his eyes soft with a weary surrender. “Your respect is enough for me.”

“You are a good man,” Javert said when he stepped closer, resting his hand on Valjean’s shoulder. “I don’t deny that. You know what is right—yes, you know it better than even I do. You’re doing right in this as well. And the girl needs no notions of uniforms and gold lace—haven’t you been enough for her all these years? She loves you, as she should. Let that be enough for you.”

Valjean turned his head away, but Javert would not release him. He stepped even closer, until they were pressed chest to chest, his hand on Valjean’s chin to make the man meet his eyes.

At last, Valjean swallowed painfully, silently inclining his head.

“It is enough,” he said later when Javert would not release him, his voice rough.

His mouth was still lined by remembered pain; even so, was there not pain in life for all of them? Valjean was a good man, but even a good man could stray on his path. Just as Valjean had shown Javert a different, painful path, so in turn Javert now would not let Valjean take the easier path.

“Now, show me that letter you received,” Javert commanded, and then, although it was late, he spent another hour pacing and furiously arguing with himself, coming up with idea after idea he had to reject again.

Valjean had been right in one thing: as a man who had paid his taxes and who had rented this house in the Rue Plumet, the state now in turn demanded of him the service for which Valjean had purchased the uniform of the National Guard.

“What a mess this is,” Javert growled irritably when at last, he let the letter drop, his hand rubbing at his burning eyes. It was late, and the matter remained unresolved.

“Damn you, Jean Valjean, you are right.” He buried his fingers in his whiskers once more, tugging on them as he pondered the conundrum this summons presented. To imagine Valjean in the garb of a bourgeois, the convict in the National Guard—unthinkable!

And yet in turn, to defy the law, when they had it in writing here, black on white, that Valjean was to join the guard in two weeks’ time… Should now he, Javert, aspire to quarrel with Comte de Lobau himself?

“Truly, you are the very devil,” Javert muttered, slamming the letter down onto the table. Then he scowled at the uniform that still hung at the door.

“Why is it that no matter how much you promise that all you desire is a quiet life, you find reason after reason to defy the law and make a mockery of the state? And worse, now you’ve drawn me into your deception; now it’s Javert who makes a mockery of authority itself, sending you to that—”

Valjean had risen from where he had watched Javert pace. He was still clad only in his nightshirt, and Javert’s mouth went dry when he stared at the thin fabric stretching over strong thighs.

Silently, Valjean held out his hand. There was still a hint of pain in the set of his mouth, but his eyes met Javert’s with quiet invitation.

For a long moment, Valjean remained standing there, his hand held out to Javert.

At last, when Javert did not move, Valjean let his hand sink. As Javert watched, Valjean swallowed. Then his hand gripped the hem of his shirt.

Slowly, Valjean pulled the shirt off, baring the strong body to Javert’s eyes. There was a hint of color on his cheeks now as he presented himself to Javert’s eyes, although he still remained silent.

His heart beating in his throat, Javert stared at him. His eyes ran possessively over broad thighs, the strong chest, the burn on his breast where once, a _J_ had marked him, and resting at last with open hunger between Valjean’s thighs.

The room was quiet. Javert could hear nothing but the sound of his own rapid breathing.

Then, a moment later, he was on Valjean. Hungrily, he tumbled them both down onto Valjean’s bed, the letter forgotten as they struggled together.

Valjean made soft little gasps against his mouth, and when Javert finally succeeded in pushing down his trousers and thrusting inside, Valjean muffled his moans against his shoulder, even though Javert had smoothed but a few drops of oil over himself in his eagerness.

Valjean’s body was clutching him tightly. The strong body was hot and yielding within, receiving every desperate thrust without complaint, the silken heat of Valjean tight around his aching prick until Javert was thrusting harder, harder, desperate to bury himself so deep inside Valjean that no one would ever pry them apart again.

He came with a choked groan, buried to the root inside Valjean’s willing body. Only when his trembling limbs obeyed him again and he managed to move off Valjean did he realize that despite his disregard for Valjean’s pleasure, Valjean had found release as well.

Chastened, Javert reached for a cloth to wipe them both down. Then Valjean’s strong arms wrapped around him, and a moment later, Javert found himself clutching at Valjean once more in turn.

“Now you know what it was like to do this in the bagne,” Valjean said quietly. “When it’s the only comfort in your despair.”

Javert laughed, although there was no humor in it. But still, he did not move away or start the quarrel again. For what was there to discuss? Jean Valjean had been right. It was either go along with the deception, or unveil all—and thus hand over Valjean to authority.

And that, he could not do. Even now, it seemed utterly impossible to contemplate a life where he did not return home to Valjean’s warmth, the need to possess this man who had eluded him for so long burning twice as fiercely as it had then, now that he knew the taste of his willing surrender.

“You’ve broken me,” he muttered against Valjean’s neck. “What use is a man like me when the sharp edge of his blade has dulled?”

Shyly, Valjean rested his hand on Javert’s hip, stroking up the sweaty skin. “To me? There’s nothing I could less bear to lose.” 

Javert choked on another laugh. “Lies, Jean Valjean. That part belongs to the girl.”

There was less bitterness in it now, but he knew it was the truth. Valjean in turn acknowledged it by his silence.

Nevertheless, Valjean kept trailing his hands over Javert’s skin, willingly pressing himself close—and that was also truth. Javert was a comfort Valjean craved. A thing he did not want to do without.

And in turn, even when Valjean drove him to near madness with his disregard of all authority, he could not let go of him. Even now, he would rather throw himself into the Seine than let go of Jean Valjean.

Where would it all end? Javert could not say. But he could not hand Valjean over. Worse—he could no longer force Valjean to do his bidding in all things, for as sweet as it was to have Valjean willingly give his submission in some regards, there were others where he was as stubborn as an ox and would shy away from anything that seemed like the chains Javert had once put on him.

“You are the devil himself,” he muttered again against Valjean’s sweaty skin, “but that is well, perhaps that’s what I deserve. Go on then, play the bourgeois for her. But when you return from mounting guard, I will be here, and I will know who it is you truly are, Jean Valjean.”

Valjean took hold of Javert’s hand and drew it to his mouth, his lips soft against Javert’s knuckles. That was how they fell asleep that night.

It was not until another two months had passed that Jean Valjean had occasion to wear his new uniform. Javert was busy that day; when he came home late in the evening, Valjean had long since returned from mounting guard. The uniform was put away to be cleaned by Toussaint, the rifle hidden in a cabinet, Jean Valjean no longer wearing the disguise of an aging officer, but reading in their study as he awaited Javert as no other than who he truly was.

The sight would have pleased Javert, if the events of the day had not already fallen from his mind. For when he had entered the garden in the darkness, the moon obscured by clouds, it seemed to him that he had once more heard a strange sound in the darkness.

There had been the distant sound of a door—or perhaps a window—being gently shut. And while it was true that the sound could have carried from the house of one of their neighbors, or that Valjean could have opened his window for the cool night air after the summer’s heat, instinct nevertheless had Javert on his guard.

Was that not a rustle somewhere, as though something—or someone—had brushed against a branch?

Grasping hold of his cudgel, Javert advanced silently. There was another rustling sound—and then, abruptly, it broke off. Had Javert had been spotted?

Baring his teeth, Javert stared into the darkness, waiting for the cloud to move past the moon—and a moment later, a small shadow took flight from one of the trees before him, the hoot of an owl giving away the identity of the thief who had alarmed Javert so.

“The deuce,” he said, shaking his truncheon at the sky, the intruder safely fled on its wings, “I have half a mind to cut down that tree of yours. To scare a man in his own home! What a ninny I am, to creep through my own garden, terrified of rats and owls. Thénardier is long gone, and the only thieves here are those villains come to feast on our mice and strawberries.”

Thus satisfied, he continued towards the house, never realizing that as soon as he had entered the house, a candle appeared in Cosette’s window for a moment before it was quickly snuffed out.


	79. Chapter 79

The following morning, Valjean woke very early. Javert had risen even before the dawn to leave for work, and Toussaint and Cosette were still asleep.

After he had washed, Valjean stepped outside to stroll through the garden, raising his eyes with a smile to the old tree which was home to a pair of owls, for Javert had told him with a chuckle about the fright they had given him.

No owls were about today, but in the light of the sunrise, a finch was singing near the rosebushes, and a rabbit had left its track.

Quietly, Valjean wandered through the garden, touching a tree here, admiring a budding flower there. His soul was lifted by invisible hands, the first rays of the morning sun warm on his face. As he surveyed this small idyll they had built, a quiet joy filled him.

He was certain now that Cosette had forgotten all about the boy and her former sadness. These days, if he asked her to go to the Luxembourg, she agreed with delight, and there would be no reaction at all on her face when they passed a certain, empty bench. If he asked her instead to come and give alms with him to the beggars near Saint-Germain-des-Prés, she came along with the same delight.

Everything was as it had been, and as he stood in the golden light of this summer morning, it seemed to him that some half-glimpsed catastrophe had been averted, that where in his fear he had once seen two paths diverging, now there was only one, and that this path would lead them into summer after summer where they would admire the roses and grow strawberries here in the Rue Plumet, and where Javert would scowl at owls and, in the privacy of their bedroom, touch Valjean’s with hands that gripped only to give pleasure.

There was a small smile still on his face as his eyes trailed past the wall that encircled their garden. He thought of Javert’s return home in the evening, how he would keep his window open, and how the air would be warm and sweet with the scent of flowers.

Then he froze, realizing at last what was amiss.

There, into the stone above the bench, someone had scratched an address.

_16 Rue de la Verrerie,_ it read, and Valjean read the line again and again, his lips moving quietly.

All of a sudden, he shook himself, like a man who had woken from a bad dream. He looked around himself in terror, fearing even now to find himself surrounded by villains once more. Had Thénardier found their home?

But there was no other sign that something was wrong, no thieves jumping out of the bushes—no explanation for this mystery.

His heart beating in his throat, he remembered suddenly that Javert had thought that someone was hiding in their garden during the past night. Javert had at last concluded that he had heard an owl—but what if Javert had been wrong? Had Javert surprised whoever had scratched this message into the stone—and if so, who had that person been, and for whom was the message intended?

Deeply troubled, Valjean at last went inside once more. It could have been a gamin, he assumed, or a beggar in search of a home for the night. Indeed, it could have been a thief marking the house or leaving a hidden message for accomplices, having found the house less deserted than assumed, and sent running by Javert’s return.

Nevertheless, Valjean could not keep from dwelling on the strange message. At last, uneasy at having their idyll so abruptly invaded, Valjean went on a walk to the Champ-de-Mars. It was the late afternoon, and the sun stood high in the sky when he settled on one of the most solitary slopes there. 

The message he had found this morning was still on his mind. It was an address—but to what purpose had it been left there? Once Javert returned in the evening, perhaps inquiries could be made to see if there was some connection to the inn-keeper.

And yet, was that truly prudent? For Javert had been right all those many weeks ago. Valjean might ache to live the life of a bourgeois and to have Cosette look at him with love, but the truth was that someone like him could never be a part of society in such a way.

Should Valjean now trust the police to look into his matters? To trust Javert was one thing—but what if Javert’s inquiries would draw further attention? Would it not be better to pack their things and move?

Javert might not be frightened by the threat Thénardier posed, but if by some chance Valjean were exposed for what he was—how could he bear to lose Cosette’s love? To have her behold him with the same horror with which she had observed the chaingang at the Barrière du Maine?

Despondently, Valjean stared at the slope before him. Javert would not agree to leave. Javert would desire to hunt for that miserable man who had once already had Valjean in his power. And yet that would place them all in danger.

What was to be done? Lost in those dark thoughts, the idyll they had found in their home in the Rue Plumet suddenly vanished beneath storm clouds that had appeared out of nowhere, Valjean sat lost in thought. All of a sudden, from the corner of his eyes he saw a shadow appear, alerting him to the fact that someone must have crested the slope right behind him.

Before he even had time to turn around, something dropped into his lap so that he started, staring at it in sudden shock even as he took hold of it with trembling fingers.

It was a paper, folded in four and wrapped around a stone. His heart racing, he unfolded it, then stared at the words written in large letters without daring to breathe.

_“MOVE AWAY FROM YOUR HOUSE.”_

When he twisted around in sudden dread, no one was to be seen. Whoever had dropped the message over his head had already left.

He clenched his fingers around the letter, then hastily stood. He had been right—the message he had found scratched into the wall this morning had been a sign that they had been found. There was no time left to lose. Perhaps Thénardier was even now planning an attack.

Javert was not yet home when Valjean returned to the Rue Plumet, cold sweat running down his back as he hurried through their garden with not a single look for the beloved rosebushes and the tree where the owls nested.

The door was closed, the windows intact. He spoke a silent prayer of relief as he made his way into the drawing-room to find Cosette seated by the piano, idly playing a melody.

“Father,” she said in delight, her eyes warm as she stood and hurried towards him. “How terrible it is of you to go on walks without your Cosette. But come, there is a price to be paid for that: we will have coffee, and then you must tell me about what you saw today.”

Valjean grasped hold of her hands. “Don’t ask questions now,” he said gently, trying to smile despite the fear that still squeezed his heart with an iron fist. “We set out this evening with Toussaint. Next week, we shall be in London.”

Even as he spoke the words, he trembled. Javert would not approve of that plan. Javert would not go with him. Yet still, how could he stay when Thénardier had seen through his disguise and found his address?

Perhaps they would stay in London for a few months. It would be an exciting time for a girl like Cosette: travel and the sights of a new city would make her forget all about the mystery they were running from. And then, once some time had passed, they would return and settle down in a small house at the outskirts of the city.

Javert could come to live with them—or perhaps, since Javert would be loath to give up his position, Javert could spend the weekends with them. It would be a sacrifice to give up the nights he had rested in Javert’s embrace, but if God asked for such a sacrifice to be made, Valjean would give up even that comfort, as dear as it had become to him, to keep Cosette safe from all harm.

“But father.” Cosette’s eyes were wide, her face suddenly terribly pale. “We can’t—”

“There is no time. Pack your things,” Valjean said, his voice tight as he turned away from her.

“Toussaint?”

The woman appeared from the kitchen, wringing her hands. “Monsieur,” she said nervously.

In brisk words, Valjean repeated his orders: that she was to pack what could be packed, that she was to prioritize what they would need during the next few days, that men would come to pack up what remained later on; in short: that the household was moving, and that no time was to be lost with questions.

Then Valjean hastened to his study. His mind was still a whirlwind, the letter, which he had stuffed into his pocket, as heavy as a rock.

His hand trembled when he took hold of a pen, dipping it into the leaden inkstand. A drop splattered onto the blank paper, spreading there like a bloodstain.

Unsettled, he crumpled the paper and started anew.

_“To Inspector Javert. The Post of the Archives. Unexpected circumstances have made it necessary that we move from the Rue Plumet. I will acquire new lodgings near the Blancs-Manteaux. I will send note of our address this evening. Ultime Fauchelevent. June 4th.”_

He sent the note to the station-house, and then, to distract himself from the worry of what this letter might cause if it fell into wrong hands, he took a carriage to the Blancs-Manteaux.

Despite the peaceful year they had spent in the Rue Plumet, there was an ever-present fear in the back of Valjean’s mind, which made him look for escape routes and planned for any contingencies. Thus he had long ago taken note of the quiet streets near the old monastery, where a simple apartment could be rented on little notice, and where, without Javert’s presence in his life, he might have done just that while staying in the Rue Plumet, ever prepared for a day when his secret was discovered.

Now, he returned to the sleepy quarter, and there soon found a willing portress. For two months, he rented a small apartment with three bedrooms. It would not be suitable to remain there for long—not if he wanted to enjoy the comfort of Javert’s arms at night again—but surely even Javert would see that it might serve for a week or two. And during that time they could hide their trail and search for another home.

When the apartment had been acquired and matters had been settled with the portress, he returned to the Rue Plumet. Cosette was pale, but Toussaint had packed what they needed for the first few nights. In a little more than an hour, they were all inside another carriage with their valises, and the garden of the Rue Plumet with its wall bearing the mysterious message was left behind.

As soon as matters had been settled, Valjean had sent another gamin to the station-house, sending Javert their new address in the Rue de l’Homme Armé. There had been no answer, and so, as the evening turned into night, Valjean was pacing in their small dining-room.

Had Javert not received the message? Or had he received it and refused to come to Valjean out of anger?

Pale, Valjean pressed his lips together, thinking again of the unsettling letter that had been dropped into his lap.

_“Leave your house,”_ it had said. What could it mean but that he had been discovered?

Let Javert be angry with him. Once he came and Valjean showed him the letter, he would understand. Surely Javert would see that there had been no other choice.

Even now Valjean could not help but think that it would be best to put an end to the constant terror haunting him. To go to London, to be free at last, to no longer know himself in danger—would that not be the best solution?

And yet, he knew that Javert would not go. Despite the way the mysterious message made Valjean’s blood run cold even now, a separation from the comfort of Javert’s embrace seemed just as unbearable.

Perhaps not London, then. Perhaps simply another house—and this time, Valjean would take more care to keep them safely hidden.

Elsewhere in the house, there was the sound of a door closing.

Valjean straightened as he was drawn from his contemplation. Had Javert come at last?

But after a moment, he heard an unfamiliar voice. Then there was the voice of the porter. Straining to make out what was being said, he soon found out that a different lodger had returned home.

It was not Javert. Dejected, Valjean sat down at the small desk that stood in a corner.

Had Javert not received his message? Had he returned to the Rue Plumet instead and found it empty and deserted?

Valjean’s hand shook as he reached out for the inkstand once more. He hesitated for a long moment.

_To Inspector Javert, Rue Plumet No. 31,_ he began.

Then he crumpled the paper in his hand. No. To send note of his new lodgings to his old address would give everything away. He might as well have stayed there.

And perhaps Javert was simply busy with his work, spending the evening listening to the goings-on in another wine-shop. Perhaps Javert would return late to the station-house—but there, he would find Valjean’s note. Javert might be angry with him regardless, but he would come. Javert would come. He always came.

Nevertheless, after a long moment, Valjean took hold of the pen again to send another message to the station-house.


	80. Chapter 80

The day had been long. On the morrow, General Lamarque’s funeral procession would travel through the streets, and on Gisquet’s orders, Javert and his colleagues had traversed streets, wine-shops, corners, rounding up informants, or gathering information themselves in the disguise of workingmen in the shady corners of a cook-shop.

The following day promised to be just as long. Instead of returning to the station-house at the Archives, Javert hastily scrawled down any information of note and left it in a station-house on the other side of the river, on the way to the Rue Plumet.

He was tired, his head aching from the cheap wine he had nursed all evening. Even so, despite the sparse hours of sleep that awaited him, a feeling of contentment spread through him when he reached at last the familiar houses of the Rue Plumet.

Everything was dark and quiet. There was no light in Valjean’s bedroom—had he already gone to bed? It did not matter. Javert was weary to the bone. It would be enough to slip into Valjean’s bed in the darkness and press himself to his warm body beneath the sheets. Then, he would close his eyes and sleep, and wake more rested in the morning.

The house was silent when he let himself in. Everything was dark. He reached for the lamp that stood by the door and lit it, then turned around—and froze at the sight of what he found.

There, all around him, were the sights of a hastily abandoned home.

Half-packed boxes stood against one wall. The linen closet was open.

His heart beating in his throat, he walked towards the curtained-off room by the kitchen where Toussaint slept.

“Toussaint?” he called out softly.

There was no answer, and when he shone his light in, the bed was empty.

Javert felt suddenly cold. Swallowing against sudden fear, he hastened up the stairs, not caring whether he might wake anyone. He opened the door to Valjean’s bedroom, rushing inside—and stood frozen when the light of his lamp fell upon the empty bed.

Valjean was gone. His possessions remained—but the small Bible and The Lives of the Saints he kept on his nightstand had disappeared, as had his copper crucifix. Javert dropped to his knees, groping blindly in the darkness beneath the bed for the small valise which Cosette had sometimes teased Valjean about.

It was gone as well.

Jean Valjean had fled again. There was a strange roar in Javert’s ears.

After a long moment, he shook his head, then realized that he was panting, like a wild animal driven into a trap.

Painfully, he forced himself to stand.

Surely Valjean would not abandon him. Surely Valjean would not leave him like this, without word or explanation—and had they not left behind the quarrels of the past? Nothing had happened during the past day, or even the preceding month.

For an hour, Javert paced through Valjean’s bedroom without realizing, his eyes coming to rest on the empty bed again and again. Finally, he calmed himself enough to sit down.

Jean Valjean had left no hint as to what had come to pass. But surely something must have happened. Perhaps a man who recognized him had come to blackmail him. Perhaps Valjean had quickly fled into a hiding place, and tomorrow, he would send word to Javert.

Either way, when Javert fell asleep at last, it was in Jean Valjean’s bed, still dressed, his hand clutching the pillow that still carried the scent of Valjean’s white locks.

***

Javert had no word of Valjean until he tiredly made his way to the station-house in the morning, where by that point, three missives waited for him.

“Damn you,” he muttered into his collar as he skimmed through them, scowling so ferociously that the clerk who had handed them to him took two steps back.

With his teeth bared at any who stood in his way, Javert made his way to his desk. There, quickly and without thinking, he wrote down a missive of his own.

“Fauchelevent. We will have words about this. This time, I will accept no apologies. JAVERT. June 5th.”

Before he could change his mind, he sent the message to the Rue de l’Homme Armé. Then, he was called into the Commissaire’s office and given his orders for the day. Dressed as a workingman, Javert was to observe in the yard of the Maison-Brûlée and in the Rue Traversière, where artisans had exchanged subversive paroles during the past weeks. Later, he would join the crowds that would gather for Lamarque’s funeral procession. He would take note of anything that was said or done that might endanger order, and report back his findings.

Soon after, despite the meager sleep he had found that night, Javert was standing in the crowd that had gathered. A flash of gold had immediately drawn his attention. It had been swallowed by the crowd a moment later, but by making use of any opening he found, half an hour later he had made his way near a student he recognized from a night in a wine-shop a year ago.

Javert was standing not far from the Bridge d’Austerlitz. When the riot started, he again observed, surging and falling back with the crowd, taking note of any who stood out. By chance he found himself not far from that noticeable golden head when another cry arose in the Rue Bassompierre: “To the barricades!”

For a moment, a fierce smile appeared on Javert’s face. Insurgency—just as his superiors had suspected, that terrible specter of the masses swarming to tear down the very pillars of order society rested on. And he, Javert, now found himself at the center of that maelstrom.

Hidden in the crowd, he drifted along with it, as a man might be carried out to sea by a current. 

Javert openly joined the rabble that had gathered around the students in the Rue des Billettes. Saint-Merry was their destination; the Rue Saint-Denis was where they ended up. By the time night fell, Javert, remaining quiet, his cap drawn onto his face, was firmly entrenched with the crowd that had taken over the wine-shop called Corinthe there.

For several hours, Javert worked to help build a smaller barricade that was to block the narrow Mondétour lane. It suited him to work out of the eye of most of the insurgents; moreover, there had been a man at work on the larger barricade who had attracted his attention, and who had looked at him oddly.

At this, Javert had felt a strange feeling of unsettlement. Was the man known to the police? Was this, perhaps, another agent at work in disguise, like Javert himself?

And yet, as Javert continued to work, listening carefully to hear if someone would speak the stranger’s name, he could not help but suspect that there was a darker background. Had not that man the strange furtiveness of the hunted meeting the hunter? And was it not to be expected that in this riot of chaos against authority, Crime would lend its hands to Revolt?

Javert, who prided himself on his memory of faces and facts, could not place the man; even so, the niggling sense of wrongness remained. It kept gnawing at him until a shot resounded through the narrow alley. It had come from the Rue de la Chanvrerie, where the larger barricade was situated.

Javert straightened immediately. Had the attack begun? But there was no answer to the shot, only an eerie silence that followed.

The two men who had helped him with the Mondétour barricade exchanged a look. A moment later, one of them gave Javert a nod and left to see what had happened. He came back less a minute later, grim and silent, his face very pale.

Had a stray shot eliminated their leader?

The man did not speak, but by his gesture, Javert and the other insurgent found themselves summoned to the space in front of the Corinthe. The doors to the wine-shop had opened. Those who had sat within, making cartridges, had gathered outside as well, where Javert now saw the golden-haired student, Enjolras, holding a pistol. At his feet, a man cowered—the same man who had so unsettled Javert earlier.

An insurgent turned around when they joined the crowd. He, too, did not speak, but gestured at the tenement in front of them. As Javert slowly inspected the building, he saw at last in a window on the third story a lifeless, grey-haired head resting. Blood was slowly dripping down the wall to the window below.

Enjolras gave the man at his feet a cold look. “Collect yourself. Think or pray. You have one minute.”

“Mercy,” the man groaned, then began cursing as he convulsed at his feet.

Enjolras kept the gun pointed at him. The men next to Javert turned their heads away; Javert, in turn, listened carefully, for he heard in those mumbled curses a trace of the argot of thieves, and a strange cadence that seemed familiar.

Had he apprehended this man before? The face was splotched red with terror; Javert felt uncertainty gnaw at him as he studied it.

Then the minute was up. Without a moment’s hesitation, Enjolras executed the man with a single shot from his pistol.

The man next to Javert flinched. The entire barricade had fallen silent. Enjolras prodded the corpse with a foot; Javert kept his eyes on the man’s face, still trying to place his features.

“Throw that outside,” Enjolras commanded.

Together with two other men, Javert quickly stepped forward. He grabbed hold of the man’s shoulder while a second took the other, the third taking the corpse by the legs.

They carried him towards the small barricade Javert had built in the Mondétour lane. As they walked, Javert kept staring at the man’s face.

“Did you know the man?” one of his companions demanded.

Slowly, Javert shook his head. “Something about him seems familiar. And yet I can’t say why. Did he give his name?”

“Le Cabuc,” the other insurgent said darkly. “No one here knows him. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s been spying on our gatherings for some time. This one has the stench of Gisquet on him, mark my words.”

Javert showed no trace of the shock that went through him at those words. Gisquet? Impossible. The man had the look of a common criminal, and Javert was half-certain now that he had arrested him before. Something about his voice had been very familiar—and yet, no picture would form in his mind.

Together, they threw the body over the small barricade. Javert stared at the corpse with narrowed eyes for a moment. Once this insurrection was over, he would return and search the pockets of the man. There was some connection to past crime, he was certain of it.

“Hurry up,” one of the other insurgents muttered. “The barricade won’t build itself.”

Banishing those thoughts from his mind, Javert returned to the task at hand. For another hour, they worked on fortifying the small barricade, while Javert in turn took note of every word, every name and every weapon. Once that task was done, he retired to the tap-room where powder was scattered over tables, and only a single candle was allowed to burn at a safe distance.

The entire interior of the wine-shop was gloomy, which suited Javert well. Keeping to himself, Javert retired to a table situated in a corner where he was hidden by the shadows. With his cap drawn into his face and his musket held between his knees, he once more reviewed the information he had gathered so far. He had the names of many of the insurgents; he had an overview of the two barricades and the numbers of men manning them; he did not yet have a complete understanding of their resources of weapons and ammunitions, but that would certainly soon follow.

With that accomplished, he could make his exit via the small barricade in the Mondétour lane and carry his information to his superiors.

Perhaps there would be another note from Valjean awaiting him at the station-house. What would he have made of Javert’s message? It had been terse, making no effort to hide his displeasure.

For a moment, Javert regretted that he had not written a longer message. Then he remembered the anguish of returning to an empty house, Valjean fled from him once more, and he clenched his jaw.

No—that was no way to treat a man. He did not even know what had set off Valjean this time. Was Javert never to be given a voice in such great upheaval of their lives?

And yet, once this dangerous work was done, and after he had looked into the business by the Jena bridge on the right bank of the Seine, he would search out Valjean in his new quarters, and he would clutch him in his hands once more. He’d grip his collar tightly to pull him close, and then he would kiss him, and Valjean, that utterly frustrating devil of a man who ever found new ways to torment Javert, would surrender his mouth to him, the powerful body yielding in his arms. Then, he would promise Javert that such a thing would never happen again—

A sound drew Javert from his contemplation.

When he looked up, he saw that a group of students had entered the tap-room. One of them stood by the side of their leader. Both of them were looking straight at Javert, who felt in that heavy gaze the same judgment he had seen earlier when Le Cabuc had been executed.

Javert drew himself up straight. He did not try to run when the man came closer.

“Who are you?” Enjolras demanded.

“I see how it is.” Javert allowed himself a small smile. He met the insurgent’s gaze evenly, making no move to disguise his identity, nor to hide the satisfaction that came from at last confronting the leader of the riot with the righteousness of the judge. “Well. Yes.”

“You are a police spy?” Enjolras’ eyes were cold.

“I am an agent of authority,” Javert answered with the same satisfaction.

“And your name?”

“Javert.”

The insurgents were certain to kill him; well, so it came to an end. He had his papers on him; when this was over, they would be found on his corpse. If Valjean were to send further messages to the station-house, they would inform him, thinking him Javert’s friend.

Valjean would be safe in truth then. With Javert dead and his papers in order, he would be able to lead the quiet, bourgeois life he had hoped for, buying the girl more damask dresses and walking with her through the park like a retired officer.

That was well. Javert would die as he had lived, an upright agent of authority, and the lie would die with him. Perhaps Valjean would mourn him, but he had the girl and he had his freedom, and he would be happy enough.

He wished he had sent a different, final message to Valjean—but that, too, could no longer be undone.

“I know you,” the man who had entered and pointed him out to Enjolras said. His name was Combeferre, and Javert had heard enough to note that he was a medical student.

Now, as he approached, Javert was gripped once more by an unsettling feeling. This man, too, produced in him the distinct impression that he had seen him before.

As Combeferre advanced on him, there was a look of distaste on his face. It was not, Javert thought in confusion, the look of an insurgent beholding an agent of authority, but of a more personal nature—not hate, but disgust.

It seemed to him that he had seen this man look at him in such a way in the past —and a moment before Combeferre opened his mouth, Javert recognized him.

It was the student who had watched him that fateful day near the shop of Master Brisset. It was this man who had shouted “Down with the slavery dear to the bourgeoisie” when Javert had been forced to rip open Valjean’s shirt and bare the brand that denoted his slavery—and who might have watched him whip Valjean with his own belt there.

Javert tilted back his head, his lips parting in a voiceless laugh. It seemed that Providence had decreed that he should not leave this world without doing penance for what he had done.

“That is fair,” he said.

Combeferre stopped in front of him, next to the barricade’s leader.

“I know this man,” he pronounced. “He bought a slave from the state. I saw him whip the man with my own eyes, for the amusement of a group of other agents—a man already white-haired, who’d done no wrong but went into a shop to buy some trinket.”

“Well? Have you nothing to say to that?” Enjolras demanded.

Javert was still laughing voicelessly. Then he fell silent and fixed Enjolras with a haughty stare.

“It is the truth. I bought a slave in Toulon, nine years ago. I whipped that man in the alley by Master Brisset’s shop.”

Enjolras’ mien was very grave. “There will be a future where no man belongs to another,” he said calmly. “A future where there is no whip and no sword. But you have no place in that world. You will die ten minutes before the barricade falls.”

“That is well,” Javert said quietly, and he did not resist when they took hold of him to search him and tie him to a pole.

Time passed. Javert was lost in contemplation. Shortly after a distant bell had rung, there was an attack on the barricade. Half an hour later, the insurgents filed back into the tap-room where Javert was still bound to a post. They brought with them a corpse which they placed upon a table, covering it with black cloth.

“It will be your turn soon,” Enjolras said to Javert, who did not answer.

Javert had never feared death. In truth, to die at his post, upholding the rule of authority over chaos to the very last moment, was how he had imagined he would leave this world if he had given any thought to it at all.

But now, for the first time, there was a tinge of regret, for to die would mean to not see Valjean again. Worse: to leave Valjean with the curt message written in obvious anger.

They left him to pass the night in such a way. There seemed to Javert a certain, terrible irony in it, and he bared his teeth in acknowledgment at the hand of fate, which had decreed that he spend his final night bound—just as once, Valjean had spent his nights chained in his bedroom.

Still, the thought of that final missive he had sent to Valjean never left his mind, and when the leader of the revolt finally entered the tap-room again at dawn, Javert swallowed his pride.

“Is there anything you want before you die?” Enjolras asked coldly.

Javert’s mouth was parched, and his bound limbs ached.

“One thing only,” he said. “For one of your men to write down a message for me, and to leave it in my pocket, so that it is retrieved when my corpse is found.”

After a moment, Enjolras nodded, and one of his comrades stepped forward.

Javert stared at the student, loathing welling up in him. Should now an insurgent know the secrets of his heart?

Thinking of Valjean’s soft hair against his cheek, the way wary eyes had so often relaxed into trusting surrender, he nevertheless forced himself to speak after a moment.

“To M. Fauchelevent, Rue de l’Homme Armé, No. 7.” He hesitated, then made himself continue rapidly, not meeting the eyes of the student. “Dear friend. All is forgiven. I pray you will forgive me as well. Javert, Inspector of the First Class. June 6th.”

“Done,” the student said after a moment, and a folded piece of paper was slid into his pocket.

Javert breathed a sigh of relief. Now he could die without regret.


	81. Chapter 81

There had been no word from Javert all evening. Valjean had passed a sleepless night. The sudden decision to remove them to London now seemed terrifying as he imagining Javert both angry and distraught at his sudden absence.

On the morning of the 5th of June, a letter was delivered at last. It came from Javert, the words penned in obvious anger, for the tip of the pen had nearly torn the paper in places.

Regardless, it meant that Javert knew that Valjean had not wanted to run from him, and, perhaps, in the evening, upon Javert’s return, all could be explained and forgiven.

Thus relieved, Valjean went about his day, occupied once more with pondering where he should take them after this, and how he might soothe Javert’s understandable anger. In the evening, Cosette retired early. Valjean, still distracted by thoughts of how he might appease Javert with gentle touches, only half listened to Toussaint discuss her plans for dinner, accepting the offer of a cold chicken with the same distracted nod with which he acknowledged her mention of fighting going on outside.

The evening passed. Javert had not returned, nor had he sent another letter. His fingers trembling, Valjean nearly set out to write another message to the station-house, then made himself throw it out. Too many messages, and they were sure to arouse someone’s suspicion. In any case, if Javert was still angry at the betrayal of his sudden move, no letter would change that.

And had they not gone through worse before? In time, Javert would return and Valjean would do what reparation he could. Even if Javert were still angry when he claimed him, they would be close once more, and would both realize that that was how it was meant to be.

Having thus calmed himself, Valjean began to stand from the writing desk when—by the work of either chance or Providence—his eyes fell on the mirror that stood upon the desk.

And in that same mirror, he now saw a message. He read the words twice, baffled, before the words suddenly began to make a terrible sense. 

_“My dearest, alas! my father insists on our setting out immediately. We shall be this evening in the Rue de l’Homme Armé, No. 7. In a week we shall be in England. COSETTE. June 4th.”_

Valjean halted, suddenly feeling cold. He read the words again. His eyes fell upon the blotter in front of the mirror. Long minutes passed during which his mind struggled to make sense of what he had seen—then, at last, he realized that the blotter had preserved a message Cosette must have sent a day ago, and which the mirror had revealed to him.

The earth itself seemed to tremble beneath him. He reached out with a hand to steady himself, unable to draw in a breath. All thought of Javert was forgotten when with cruel clarity, the message revealed the terrible truth which he had feared for so long, and which he had thought they had safely escaped.

The boy of the Luxembourg had never been forgotten. While Jean Valjean thought them safe and returned to their former blissful life in the Rue Plumet, that young thief had continued his work.

All of a sudden, the road he had to take appeared before Valjean with startling clarity: in the morning, a coach to Calais, then a ship as soon as he could book passage.

In London, they would be safe—safe both from his past, and from that insolent boy who had dared to lay hands on the only happiness Valjean had ever known.

_And what of Javert?_ a voice seemed to whisper inside his mind.

Well, what of him? Had not Javert learned to live with his loss before? Javert could live without them for a while, and in time, they would return. Or, could not Javert come with them? The money Valjean had hidden was enough for two men such as they were to last a lifetime. Moreover, in England, Valjean could start a new business; he could at last in truth become respectable, and Cosette would have the life she deserved.

Then his thoughts turned gloomy again. For long hours, he paced. Finally, when it was close to midnight, he went outside. In front of their house, he quietly watched the deserted street. Javert still had not come. Suddenly, Valjean found himself aching for him.

Javert would be angry: that was well, for Valjean deserved it.

If he were to tell Javert now of what had come to pass, Javert would be severe with him—and Valjean deserved that, too. Perhaps Javert would forbid him to leave. And how good it would be to have another wield the fatal knife, to have Javert sink it into his heart and cut out his joy, and not have to do it himself!

Or, perhaps, to have Javert agree that this idler, this coward, could not have Cosette, that they should move, that everything should go back to how it had been before…

There was a movement in the street at last. Valjean had paid no attention when the lamp-lighter came and lit the lamps; now, in the light of the lamp opposite No. 7, a boy appeared, staring at the surrounding houses with puzzlement.

“Is this the No. 7?” he asked at last.

“What do you want with No. 7?” Valjean replied, although there was a terrible conviction growing within him. A moment later, he said: “Do you bring the message we are waiting for? The message for Cosette?”

The boy gave him a distrustful look, but at last pulled a letter from his pocket. “For Madame Cosette, from the Provisional Government.”

Valjean slipped it quickly into his own pocket, dropping a hundred-sou piece into the boy’s hand instead. “And the answer is to be sent to Saint-Merry?”

“To the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie,” the boy said haughtily, “to which I am now returning. Good night, citizen.” So speaking, he turned around, picked up a stone, and smashed the lamp that had lit the street so far.

Valjean paid no attention to it, his mind occupied by the letter in his pocket. In the darkness, he entered the house once more and locked himself into his bedroom. There, he opened the letter.

_“I die. When you read this, my soul will be near you,”_ he read there, the lines echoing in his mind, slowly supplanted by a vast relief.

His hands trembling, Valjean let the letter sink down and collapsed into a chair. Then he covered his face with his hands.

All would be well again. That prowler of the Luxembourg would die. Javert would return. Valjean would explain and be forgiven. With the boy gone, they could return to the Rue Plumet; Cosette would have the garden again, and Valjean would have the quiet evenings with Javert by his side.

The old idyll would envelop them just as tenderly as it had before, and Valjean would be grateful, claim an injury and return the uniform of the National Guard. All would be forgiven; all would be happiness.

Then he raised his head, his eyes falling upon the uniform which Toussaint had hung by the door. He stared at it for a long moment, selfishly clinging to that vision of joy which was so close that he could nearly grasp it with both hands. All he had to do was to remain here in their apartment and wait. By the next day, it would all be over.

Long minutes passed. The weight upon him seemed to increase. At last, it had grown so heavy that it felt like the caryatid that had once pressed down onto his back. Once more Valjean could feel the mud beneath his knees as he struggled underneath a cart, Javert’s unforgiving eyes upon him as Valjean chose that hard road—a road which, through suffering, led to celestial bliss.

Had he not given up enough? Would he now be asked to give up _her_ , who had become the light of the sun to him?

Slowly Valjean rose and took hold of the uniform.

What would Javert say when he returned tomorrow and found Valjean gone?

Valjean’s throat was dry, but the weight upon his shoulders lifted at last as he slipped on the uniform and took his gun. Instead, there was now a pain deep in his chest, which increased with every step he took out of the house.

He ignored that pain as he had learned to ignore other pain. With the sun of his life gone, what use had he for a heart? There was but one last thing to do now, one final sacrifice to make—and he would make it, even though he would have chosen Cosette over Paradise itself.

But that choice was no longer his.

***

Dressed as he was, it was easy for Valjean to draw close to the barricade in the Rue de la Chanvrerie.

No sentinel of the insurgents hailed him. Unhindered, he was able to climb the small barricade in the Rue Mondétour, from beyond which he could hear voices.

He halted for a moment on top of the barricade. The light of dawn filled the street before him. In its light, he saw a group of men gathered. Silently, he observed the discussion taking place.

Four uniforms of the National Guard were spread out on the street. Five men stood in front of it. Even as he observed the men arguing about which of them would be allowed to remain and die with their comrades, a stray ray of the morning sun fell upon the face of a man who stood a little aloof.

It was he. The prowler of the Luxembourg, the idler, the coward who had stolen the girl from the side of the father.

Valjean raised his fingers to his chest and unhurriedly began to unbutton his uniform. He could see clearly what had to be done now.

In a moment, he had pulled off the coat of the National Guard and flung it to where the four uniforms rested. The barricade fell silent.

Without a word, Valjean descended and joined the insurgents.

“I know that man,” the boy for whom he had come said.

Valjean did not acknowledge him. The leader of the insurgents turned to him and gravely said, “You know that we are about to die.”

Valjean did not answer him either and helped one of the five men into his coat.

A strange calm had taken hold of him. It seemed very easy now, although the fierce pain in his chest was still nearly impossible to bear. If he were to die here, he would be at peace; neither God nor angels could ask anything more of him, for he had already resolved to give up the one thing that had filled his life with joy.

Valjean had not thought of Javert for a while. The terrible decision had been made; Javert had not been there to ease the pain by taking the decision away from him, and while Valjean still felt a vague longing for the comfort of his arms, that heavenly idyll he had known with Javert seemed to have retreated from him together with the paradise that had been his life with Cosette in the Rue Plumet.

Then Enjolras led him towards a wine-shop, Valjean entering the tap-room after him, still not certain how the boy might be rescued. Inside, men were gathered making cartridges—but Valjean had no eyes for them.

At the sight that had met him when he entered the room, Valjean had halted in sudden terror, standing frozen in his doorway as ice filled his veins.

There, across the room, stood Javert, tied to a post.

Javert paled when their eyes met. A fist seemed to clench around Valjean’s heart so that he took a step forward, then halted, his heart skipping a beat as he stared at that familiar face.

“Your time will soon come,” Enjolras said, who had walked up to Javert.

With effort, Javert turned his face away from Valjean. “When are you going to kill me?”

“Wait. We need all our cartridges at present,” Enjolras said.

“You are not kind, to keep me standing all night,” Javert said after a moment. “Lay me down on a table instead.”

Enjolras granted that wish, and Valjean, whose heart was still pounding with terror at the sudden, impossible appearance of Javert in this place which he had thought his own tomb, found himself conscripted into the task of moving the prisoner to the table.

Valjean did not dare to meet Javert’s eyes for fear that he would give something away. With trembling hands, he tied a whip-cord about Javert’s feet, which someone had handed to him. Then, he took hold of Javert’s shoulders and assisted in lying him down on the table.

Briefly, his fingers pressed down, a short caress that made Javert’s head twist around. Javert, too, was very pale, his eyes wide with disbelief. Did he think that Valjean had come for him?

Suddenly Valjean felt shame well up in him for having thought only of the boy, and having forgotten all about Javert in the past few hours of torment.

Valjean swallowed. For a heartbeat, as he helped another man tie a rope around Javert’s middle, he lightly rested his hand on Javert’s chest. That was the only moment of reassurance he allowed himself. After this was done, he followed the insurgents back outside as though nothing had happened, while within, his heart was pounding with terror.

Javert had been captured. Javert had not come to him or contacted him since the past morning because he must have been here, at the barricade, spying on the insurgents.

To think that if Valjean had remained at home, selfishly condemning that boy to death to ensure his own happiness with Cosette, he would have damned not only his own soul, but Javert at the same time!

Valjean raised his eyes toward the sky, his burden having returned, although it seemed inexplicably lighter now. He saw at last that to sacrifice his own happiness meant not only to save the life of the boy, but also the life of Javert. And was that not a reward worthy of such a sacrifice?

As the insurgents returned to their posts at the barricade, Valjean sat down upon a stone, his gun between his knees. What was he to do? He had come without a plan, knowing only that God had demanded this thing of him: to risk his own life and give up all joy to—perhaps—save the life of the boy who had stolen Cosette from him.

Now, the situation had become more precarious. How was he to free Javert? He had given his coat of the National Guard away, with which he would have been able to escape. Surely Javert would have papers on him to show his orders—but the insurgents were certain to kill Javert before they died. To save not one, but two, and that from a barricade where Valjean was now beset from both sides—from the soldiers who would kill him for having joined the insurgents, from the insurgents if they knew that he desired to rescue the spy!

The endeavor seemed impossible.

Suddenly, he became aware of a strange silence. In that silence, he heard Enjolras say, “We need a mattress.”

Valjean rose. He stepped forward to the insurgents. There was no plan in his mind yet—but he knew that he could not let the boy die, which meant that he needed to defend the barricade, trusting that in time, Providence would open a path.

“Lend me that double-barrelled rifle,” he said calmly. When Enjolras handed over his weapon, he aimed it at a window above, to which someone had fastened a mattress to protect the glass. It was held in place by two strings.

Valjean took aim and then fired two shots.

The bullets cut the string. The mattress fell from the window. It landed in front of the barricade, where any who retrieved it would be in danger from the soldiers’ bullets.

While the insurgents were still debating how to retrieve it, Valjean took a deep breath and then scaled the barricade. Immediately, muskets were fired, the shots hitting the ground left and right of him. He ignored them as he grasped the mattress. Surely God had not sent him here to where Javert was in need of him without purpose.

While a hail of bullets filled the street, he dragged the mattress back through the cut, then fixed it to the back of the barricade with hands that did not shake, despite the danger he had just escaped. When he took a step back, another round of grapeshot resounded; all of it was swallowed by the mattress, not a single man wounded behind it.

Valjean ignored the insurgents as he returned to his earlier perch. Surely this, too, was a sign—without him here, at this time and in this place, was it not possible that Marius would have fallen to the grapeshot?

He could not yet see a way to extricate both men from the barricade—but he seemed to have been led here for the purpose of defending, if not rescuing. And for now, with Javert safely tied in the tap-room where the bullets did not reach, that was good enough. In time, God would show him a path. In either case, Valjean would not leave the barricade without the two men he had come for. For now, he could only wait, and pray.


	82. Chapter 82

Hours passed. Javert had not seen Valjean since early in the morning, when they had tied him to the table. Now, by the light falling in through the windows, it had to be close to noon.

Javert had not slept even for a moment. The earlier calmness had deserted him; his mind, which had been so satisfied a day ago with the death that awaited him, was filled with a roar.

Valjean.

Valjean had come to the barricade. For what purpose? How?

Javert could only assume that someone at the station-house must have slipped Valjean a hint as to his assignment, who then, seeing as how Javert had not returned when he should have, correctly deduced that Javert had been taken prisoner by the insurgents.

What had driven the man to come here, of all the things?

He had come to rescue him. Javert knew Valjean too well to doubt that foolish notion even for one moment.

That was well; now they were both going to die, and Javert would not be left with the calm satisfaction of a life well lived, which had come over him as he had dictated his final message to Valjean. Instead, he would die in the torment of having caused the death of one who had already suffered too much at Javert’s hands.

“You devil,” he muttered quietly to himself.

The man who had been left to watch over him did not stir, for Javert had muttered to himself for the past several hours.

Javert could not free himself, no matter how much he tried. They had tied him by a string which went between his legs, connecting his bound hands to the loop around his throat. By now, his skin was red and sore, and chastened, he had stopped seeking escape that way. It would not do to strangle himself—not when Valjean was alive and in danger here at the barricade.

Soon, the barricade would fall. But even if Valjean survived that, what then?

Javert was an agent of the authorities, with orders from Gisquet himself. Were he to live, he could vouch for Valjean and name him a spy as well—yet even if Valjean would manage to hide and survive the final assault, Javert was bound, and to be executed before that final battle.

Javert ground his teeth, turning his head as much as possible to judge the light coming in from the window. How much longer?

At last, not long after another exchange of shots had ominously echoed in the tap-room, the door opened and more light spilled in. The insurgents who entered were silent and somber. As Javert watched, they carried in the body of a child and placed it on a table next to him.

Enjolras gave Javert a quick, unreadable glance.

“We will deal with you soon,” he said and placed his pistol next to Javert’s head.

Then he began counting out cartridges. Javert, in turn, searched the room until at last his eyes came to rest on the familiar, broad body of Valjean.

Relief washed through him. Valjean was still alive and unharmed. He was standing at the back of the room, behind the insurgents—close to the door. If he made a run for it, he might escape even now…

Valjean did not react to his gaze. Instead, he refused the cartridges Enjolras was counting out—foolishly, Javert thought in helpless rage, for he might have used the ammunition to escape before the barricade fell.

Instead Valjean waited quietly as the leader gave his final commands.

“Someone will kill the spy in the Rue Mondétour,” Enjolras declared. “Let us not mingle our corpses with theirs. Whoever leaves this room last will take him thither and put him to death.”

Silently, Javert watched as Valjean came forward. Would Valjean, that fool, now give himself away? The insurgents obviously trusted him. He still had a chance to escape the barricade with his own life.

“Do you think I deserve a recompense?” Valjean asked Enjolras, ignoring Javert.

“You are the savior of the barricade, together with Marius. Of course,” the commander of the insurgents answered.

“Then give me the spy. Let me blow his brains out,” Valjean said.

A jolt went through Javert. Had that been Valjean’s plan all along? While Javert had been bound within, had Valjean labored without to win the insurgents’ trust?

Javert barely dared to breathe, biting his lip so he would not give away the sudden excitement that had taken hold of him. From the small barricade, they could make their escape together…

“Take the spy,” Enjolras said gravely. Then from outside, trumpets resounded, and the insurgents hastily exited the room.

Valjean had seated himself by Javert’s side, not meeting his eyes. Neither of them spoke until they were alone in the tap-room. Even then, Valjean did not speak, although he quickly cut the rope that bound Javert to the table.

For one moment, his fingers lingered against Javert’s as Valjean helped him up; then Javert was gently pushed out of the room. Valjean had not loosened the martingale or the whip-cord at his feet—that was well, Javert thought, who took care to grimace as he walked, giving no sign that his captor and executer was in truth his savior.

On their way, they walked past the corpse of a girl, her skin very pale, one of her breasts bared by the blouse that had slipped down. Javert hesitated for a second, struck by that pale face. “I know that girl,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Valjean.

Had he seen her before? He could not say. He had not slept in two days, and not eaten for nearly as long. He was dizzy and could barely form coherent thoughts, everything overwhelmed by the sharp relief of knowing Valjean safe and unharmed.

Valjean nudged him in the back with his gun. Ever aware of the eyes that might still rest on them, Javert moved on.

Valjean made him climb the small barricade that Javert had helped build himself. It was difficult with his bound feet; still, Javert was glad for every step that took them further away from the insurgents.

Valjean made him take a few more steps, then they stopped. The corner of the house hid them from the eyes of the insurgents. Valjean pushed him against the wall, one hand briefly touching his shoulder.

“Quiet now,” Valjean murmured, then used a knife to cut through the rope that bound Javert’s hands. A second later, Valjean dropped to his knees, and the whip-cord tying his feet was similarly discarded.

Javert was free at last. As soon as the rope fell away, he turned around, drawing Valjean into a reckless, fierce embrace, ignoring the ache of his stiff limbs as he clung to him.

“We are safe. It is a miracle. Why did you come? But quick now, before they grow suspicious.”

He grabbed hold of Valjean’s wrist to pull him away into the Rue Mondétour. Valjean did not budge.

“You go,” Valjean said calmly. “I have to return.”

For a moment, Javert stared at him, his mouth gaping open. Then he laughed silently. “Are you mad now? Or is this my punishment for the message I sent? Valjean, we have to leave. I will apologize at home. Don’t you understand what is going to happen? They will all die within the hour.”

Valjean flinched. Then he gazed at Javert again. There was a stubbornness in his eyes which Javert was all too familiar with.

“I cannot leave. Not yet,” Valjean said quietly. “But you are free. The soldiers will let you pass.”

“This is madness,” Javert hissed. Angrily, he grabbed hold of Valjean’s collar. “What’s the matter with you? Are you insane?”

Valjean did not resist. “I’m sorry if I made you worry—there was a strange message scratched into our wall, and then later, I received a message that said ‘Leave your house.’ I never thought to leave you behind. I wouldn’t, Javert. But you must leave now. If I can, I’ll return to you.”

Hoarsely, Javert laughed, tightening his fingers around Valjean’s coat. “I don’t care about what happened that night. I begged those insurgents to write one final message to you, pleading for your forgiveness. And here you come right into this terrible place, rescuing me—and then? What now, Valjean? Why can’t you leave? I will say you are my spy; Gisquet knows nothing of my informants, no one will—”

Valjean clenched his jaw. “No,” he said simply. “There’s one thing more I have to do. Then I will come, and—”

Javert muffled the words before he could finish his sentence by the simple solution of pressing his mouth to Valjean’s. He was exhausted and light-headed, and he kissed Valjean with all the madness and hunger of a starved animal.

Valjean groaned against his mouth, his hands coming up to Javert’s shoulders. For one blissful moment, Valjean surrendered to the kiss, the infuriating man yielding to Javert’s embrace as he had so often before, his taste once more on Javert’s tongue and his hair soft against Javert’s cheek.

Then there was the click of a trigger, and the familiar voice of an insurgent coldly addressing them.

“Halt,” it said. “It seems to me we have two spies at our barricade instead of one.”

They drew apart. Javert did not turn to acknowledge Enjolras. Instead, he pressed one hand to Valjean’s face.

“Why did you not run?” he asked in despair. “The deuce, you could be safe even now!”

“Turn around and put away your weapon,” Enjolras demanded.

Valjean was very pale, but there was a strange despair in his eyes Javert did not understand. Why had he tarried?

“You are a police spy as well?”

“No,” Valjean said, although he turned as they had been commanded.

There was something pitying in Enjolras’ eyes as he looked at Valjean. “You have defended the barricade well. But it was not for the sake of the future.”

“No,” Valjean admitted quietly.

Javert bit back a furious sound. “I don’t know the man,” he said, uttering a blatant lie for the first time in his life. “You’re very right to kill me: I’m an agent of the authorities, sent by Gisquet. But that man is on your side. He assaulted me. He—“

“Quiet, spy,” Enjolras said.

By his side, he could feel Valjean tremble.

“For whatever reason it was,” Enjolras declared as he looked at Valjean, “treason, friendship—perhaps even a misguided love—on the barricade, there can be only one answer to a spy. We are about to die here. That man will die before us, as our companions died before him. You, citizen, I will leave the choice—die here with him, or die with us.”

Enjolras had come into the quiet Rue Mondétour on his own, for, perhaps, a final glimpse before the insurgents would fall together. He had his rifle cocked in his hands, whereas Valjean’s gun was abandoned—and then, Valjean had declined the cartridges he had been offered.

Javert gritted his teeth. Had he not known that there would have been a use for them eventually?

Then, without thinking, he threw himself forward.

Enjolras’ gun resounded a heartbeat later. Javert felt the impact like a punch to his shoulder. There was no pain; the insurgent must have missed—

Then, to his surprise, he found that he had stumbled to his knees in the street, the gun that might have saved them both still in Enjolras’ hands.

Javert’s pulse was echoing in his ears. A moment later, he became aware of a strange, insistent throb at his shoulder.

When he raises his hand to touch it, his fingers came away covered in blood.

“Oh,” he said, his voice low.

A moment later, he distantly heard the sound of the gun being cocked again. Grimly, he looked up, ready to meet his fate. He prayed that there might yet be a chance for Valjean to flee, for the insurgent would have to reload after the second shot, when he found his sightline blocked by Valjean’s broad back.

Valjean, that infuriating man, had thrown himself onto his knees in front of Javert, spreading his arms as he tried to cover him with his own body.

“No, no, no,” Javert muttered in despair, reaching out to grab hold of Valjean’s shirt with one hand, while he clutched his bleeding shoulder with the other. “What are you doing, fool? Run!”

“Please,” Valjean said, ignoring Javert. “Spare him. Have I not given my uniform to one of your men? Give me this man in recompense.”

“What is that man to you?” Enjolras demanded coldly. “I saw you embrace him, mere minutes ago. Is that why you came to the barricade?”

Javert tried to lean forward and push Valjean out of the way of the gun that was still aimed at him, but the wound throbbed fiercely now. All he managed was to lean against Valjean’s shoulder, panting against the pain while more blood leaked from the wound.

“I’ve seen you thank him earlier,” Javert said hoarsely. “Yes, you acknowledged what he had done for you when you gave me to him. You say he cannot have my life; well then, that is fair. My death then. My death here at your feet—only let him leave. Let him leave with my papers; or let me write him a missive that might allow him past the Guard, there’s strength enough in my hand at least for that.”

Valjean trembled; Javert could feel the strong shoulder shake in his grasp.

“I won’t leave.” Valjean reached back to grasp Javert’s hand. “You saw us embrace,” he continued with despair in his voice. “It’s true: this man is dear to me—dearer than my own life. I’ll stay and fight and die for you if I must, but let Javert live. He is wounded; he can do no more harm.”

“You fool,” Javert muttered again, trying to push Valjean aside, although all he succeeded in was spilling his blood over Valjean’s shirt. “Save yourself—”

There were hurried steps behind him. The shot must have alarmed the other insurgents.

Distraught, Javert tightened his fingers around Valjean’s shirt. He pressed his head to Valjean’s shoulder. The wound still ached with a sharp pain that flared up with every beat of his heart—but worse was the pain of knowing that Valjean was lost, that Valjean had come to save him, only to die here by his side.

“That man is a spy,” Enjolras said quietly after a pause. “I might spare your life for what you have done—even if you are a spy as well, you have saved lives tonight. But that man has been condemned by the execution of Jean Prouvaire.”

Enjolras stepped closer, and Javert forced himself to raise his head, watching him with the grim expression of the soldier facing the executioner with his breast bared.

Enjolras stopped and gave him a severe look. Then he aimed the gun at Javert’s head. “Moreover, this man has damned himself by his own actions. Tell us—is it not true that you are slaver as well as spy? Did you not admit to whipping a man in the streets?”

Javert convulsed with tired laughter. His wound burned. There was a certain satisfaction in dying in such a way. Had he not always sworn that he would be as severe against himself as he had been against any other man? Even so, he did not stop clinging to Valjean, hoping against hope that he might find a way to save Valjean while there was yet life in him.


	83. Chapter 83

His heart racing, Valjean stared at the weapon pointed at them. Despite the danger, blood had rushed to his face; for a moment, the shame was so great that he could not move.

“It’s true. Your man recognized me.” Javert laughed, his breath brushing against Valjean’s neck. There was a terrible satisfaction in his words. “I bought a slave, long ago. Kill me now for that. But spare this man, who has nothing to do with any of this.”

“No.” Valjean struggled to his feet, meeting Enjolras’ eyes as he ignored the barrel of the rifle that now pressed against his chest.

“Do not defend him,” Enjolras said sternly. “He whipped his slave in the street; Combeferre witnessed it himself.”

A shudder ran through Valjean as he thought back to that day. He swallowed, then said with difficulty, “Your friend who was there that day—call him forward. Ask him if he does not recognize me.”

Enjolras deliberated for a moment, but then acknowledged his request with a brief not. The gun was not lowered, but a moment later, Combeferre was summoned to his side.

“You recognized this man?” Valjean demanded. “You saw him whip his slave last autumn near the shop of Master Brisset?”

“That is so,” Combeferre said, undisturbed. “And when I confronted him with it, he did not even try to deny it.”

Again Valjean felt the hot flush of shame heat his cheeks, but he ignored it as he looked at the student. “Then, if you were there that day—do you not recognize me as well?”

With a frown, Combeferre looked him up and down. Slowly, his expression changed, until the frown was at last supplanted by an expression of amazement. “But how can that be?” he cried. “You are he—you are the gentleman he whipped, the man with the white hair and the fine coat, who had bought some trinket in Master Brisset’s shop. For that crime alone the police thought to arrest you—and then this man arrived, and seeing how he owned you, he whipped you right there in an alley.”

Enjolras’ expression had changed as well. He was now viewing Valjean with a look of grave respect. “Citizen,” he said, “we are fighting for you, although we will all die here today. But the future does not die with us. In that future, you will be free. In that future, men like this police spy will not exist. This man purchased you like one might buy a goose or an ox at the market. For what reason would you plead for his life?”

Valjean was silent for a long moment. Then he began to speak.

“I know nothing of your future. There is no future for me, I know that—I will spend my days in hiding, praying every time a man looks at me that he does not recognize me for who I am. Long ago, I stole some bread—we were starving, you see, and I was young, and when you are hungry, it is hard to think. I spent nineteen years in the galleys for that. Nineteen long years in chains. They beat me with their cudgels when they felt like it; they chained me in a solitary cell if I dared to protest; I slept on planks every night. And then, when I was released, I had the yellow passport, and I learned that my time was not yet over. There is no work for an ex-convict, and all trace of my family was gone. They were poor people, and those families vanish as easily as a hand might wipe a slate clean. A few years later, I was arrested once more: I was a recidivist, and thus to be sold like cattle. This man bought me. You are right about that. Your friend watched him beat me in the street. If he was there, he will also recall that I had been branded with this man’s name?”

Combeferre nodded gravely. “I was too far away to recall the design, but I recall the spy ripping your shirt open to prove his claim to the men who had arrested you.”

Valjean inclined his head, then turned back to face Enjolras.

“It was his initial—a _J_ , right there over my heart.”

With trembling fingers, Valjean grasped his cravat and drew it off. Then he grasped his shirt and pulled it open, bearing his breast to the gathered students, ignoring the shame that pierced his heart just as deeply as a knife.

“This same man now bleeding at your feet obscured the brand himself with this burn. He helped me acquire new papers under a different name, and file other papers claiming that the man who was his slave had died. When you saw him whip me, he was in truth trying to save me. Those men who had arrested me wanted to take me away with them, and that was the only way they would release me back into his care.”

At his feet, Javert laughed hoarsely. “You fool,” he muttered again. “Why won’t you save yourself? Haven’t you suffered enough?”

Enjolras watched Valjean pensively. Nevertheless, he addressed Valjean with somber respect. “I do not understand why you would argue for this man. It is also true that I saw you embrace him earlier. If what you say is right, then perhaps it is indeed true, and even a man like this spy might have come to earn your devotion. But what we are about to die for is not the happiness of one, but that of many. Though he might have risked himself to protect you, he has still come to spy on us, and thus to ensure that uncounted others will suffer as you have. On this day, and on this barricade, we must be severe. All of us are prepared to give our lives for a world in which no man will live in such misery.”

“His death will make no difference to that cause,” Valjean said quietly. “Give me his life. Let me buy it from you with the coin of that uniform I gave up, just as he once bought my life for two hundred francs. Let him live. Let him leave. I will stay and fight by your side.”

“No,” Javert said, clutching at his leg. “You are mad—leave me, think of Cosette…”

Valjean trembled, but did not answer. Cosette’s heart belonged to another. Another was _“dearest”_ to her. And what was there left now but to bring that greatest sacrifice: to save the boy and return him to her?

The two tasks already seemed inseparably entwined in his mind. To save Marius was to save Javert; if Javert was to live, so would Marius. How that was to be accomplished, Valjean did not know, and for himself, he saw no future but a black chasm yawning before him.

Nevertheless, he took a step forward towards that fearful precipice.

“Let him leave,” he said again. 

Enjolras watched him for a long moment. Once more, pity could be seen on his marble face, but at last, he shook his head.

“I cannot do that,” he said gravely. “But I will grant you his life—for as long as it may last. We will tie the spy in the tap-room once more. Perhaps, once we have fallen, they will find him there and free him. That is all I can give you.”

“That is enough,” Valjean said quietly, ignoring the way Javert groaned in furious despair. “Thank you.”

“And what, will you die here with them? For what reason? Why have you come, you madman?” Javert cried when they helped him back up.

Valjean flinched, but he did not answer. Marius could be watching him even now. He could not tell that prowler that he had come for him.

He had no plan. He still did not know how such a thing might be accomplished. But if, by his own life, he might save Marius, then that was what he would do.

“No words?” Javert asked through gritted teeth when they brought him back to the wine-shop. “No words for me even now?”

Valjean flinched again, Javert’s despair cutting for a moment through the cloud of blackness that seemed to have enveloped him since the moment he had seen Cosette’s message in the mirror.

“I came not for you,” he admitted shamefully once the students had tied Javert to a table once more and had retreated. “One of these men—there is one among them whom Cosette loves.”

Even now, his heart ached, as if to speak it had given it a new, terrible reality.

“He thinks he will die here. And so I came.”

“You came! For an insurgent, some idler you do not even know, some rascal who would write to a young girl without the knowledge of her father, without—“ Javert fell silent with a groan of pain after he had tried to sit up for a moment in his outrage.

Blood was still trickling from the wound. A moment later, one of the insurgents reappeared. He carried bandages, and while Javert glared at him from clenched teeth, he pulled aside Javert’s coat and shirt to inspect the wound.

“He might live,” the man said after a moment, carefully stemming the flow of blood with the bandages. “If we die quickly, that is. Pray that we die within the hour, spy.”

Javert laughed hoarsely into the face of the man who had bandaged him.

“I will see you very soon,” he muttered, unafraid, and then he turned that ferocious scowl on Valjean. “And you, yes—you I will see as well, right there beside me in Hell, for the way you have tormented me the past few days! To throw everything away, and for what?”

“Hush,” Valjean said, his face burning as the student looked at them before he took up his gun and left. 

“Conserve your strength.” Valjean’s fingers were trembling as he reached out and pressed them against Javert’s face. He buried his fingers in the ferocious whiskers, warmth rushing into his aching heart at the familiar, bristling sensation and the heat of Javert’s skin.

How often had he felt that coarse hair pressed to his shoulder? And how often had those thin lips searched out his own, betraying the heat and desire hidden beneath Javert’s sharp words?

He leaned over Javert and kissed him, closing his eyes for a moment as despair welled up inside him. What if this was the last time he would touch Javert?

Then a first shot resounded outside, and a heartbeat later, the assault seemed begun in full. Fifteen cartridges per defendant were all that remained; this would be the final assault.

“Forgive me,” Valjean said hesitantly. “I had hoped that there would be time to explain—”

Javert closed his eyes, his face contorting in agony. “All is forgiven,” he said roughly, “but oh, you goddamn fool, to think of you dying here—find some place to hide. When they come upon you, surrender. They will give you only seconds to talk, if that, but tell them you are my informant, tell them that I am tied in the taproom, tell them—“

Valjean rested his fingers against Javert’s lips, frightened by how pale Javert was. “Don’t. You’ll lose too much blood if you exert yourself.”

Suddenly, he felt an immense shame well up inside him. Why had he come to the barricade without a plan? To save the boy, Marius—but perhaps also to die here himself. He certainly had not thought about how he was to save him, or how he would live afterward. In the cloud of darkness that had enveloped him, it had seemed the right thing to do: to walk into that hail of bullets, to put his life into the hands of God, to let Fate decide what was to happen to him, now that the road before him seemed so abruptly lost.

With Javert before him, he now saw a little clearer, and he was shamed by how there seemed to be a trace of blasphemy in the haze that had made him walk willingly into danger.

“I will live,” he promised Javert. “I will save that boy too, if I can—that was why I saw that message. Good God, to think that if I had been selfish like I wanted, you would be dead even now… I must save you both, don’t you see? But if I have the chance, I will do as you say.”

“The boy too then,” Javert said, only a hint of the usual irritability in his voice. “Claim he is a spy as well, for all I care—what is one more lie in what my life has become? But you must come back to me, Valjean, you must promise. Aren’t you mine? Haven’t you sworn that you are mine?”

“I’m yours, and yours alone,” Valjean promised, taking hold of Javert’s hand one final time. “And I won’t leave you, if God watches over me today.”

“If you die here, I will come after you into Hell itself,” Javert promised hoarsely. “Neither angels nor devil will keep me from you, do you understand?”

With a flush, Valjean inclined his head, for the insurgent who had brought the bandages had come back into the tap-room at that moment and overheard Javert’s words.

And yet, what did it matter when soon enough, they would perhaps all be dead?

“I would expect no less,” he murmured, and then he left, while the insurgent checked on the wounded once more.

***

Outside, the air was filled with the pandemonium of battle. It seemed to Valjean as if he had stepped out of the quiet of the wine-shop into one of the circles of Hell itself. Wherever he looked, grim-faced insurgents manned the barricade, holding back the tide that relentlessly pressed in on them, bayonets advancing, then falling back when the defenders of the barricade used their final, precious shots.

Close to Valjean, one of the defendants suddenly fell to the ground with a cry. Without thinking, Valjean hastened to his side. Three bullets had hit him at once, two shattering his left arm, one hitting the shoulder. Hurriedly, Valjean grabbed hold of him and carried him into the tap-room.

The insurgent who had bandaged the wounded was no longer to be seen—he, too, must have joined the last stand of the barricade.

Instead, it was Valjean who now hastily applied bandages to the man, stopping by Javert’s side to reassure himself that Javert was holding up before he headed back outside, where war was still raging.

Soon, another man fell; once more Valjean hastily carried him inside. Thus he spent the final moments of the barricade: dragging men out of the rain of bullets, carrying them into the tap-room; bandaging wounds here and giving a drink of water to a dying man there. Although he was still confused as to how Marius might be saved when the cause of these men was already lost, the barricade in its final throes now, he paused now and then to bolster his courage by touching Javert’s hand for a moment.

All was not lost—Javert yet lived, and he would live if he was brought to a doctor. The sooner the barricade fell, the more likely it was that Javert would live. And yet, at the same time, would not that mean the death of the boy Valjean had come to save?

Once more Valjean headed outside. The cannon resounded again; the ground beneath him seemed to shake as the projectile hit the barricade.

For a moment, Valjean raised his eyes to that great structure. The cannon had succeeded at last in eating away at its middle; there was a breach now, and any moment, surely the Guard would make use of it. There, on the left part of the barricade that still stood, Enjolras could be seen, his hair gleaming in the light of the sun, his sword in one hand and his rifle in the other.

Valjean gaze went to the right, where Marius had been defending the other extreme of the barricade. He caught a glimpse of him just in time as another sally of shots was fired—and this time, one of the bullets found its aim.

As Valjean watched, Marius flinched, then fell.

Without a heartbeat of thought, Valjean was upon him. He grabbed hold of him by the collar and dragged him away. The tap-room seemed too far away—any moment, the soldiers would come through the barricade now, and the wine-shop certainly would not stand for more than minutes, for there was no ammunition left.

Instead, Valjean dragged Marius around the corner. The wall of the house that stood there shielded them from all eyes. With the battle raging all around them, here, at the center of the storm, it was surprisingly quiet. Were the barricade to fall, they were only moments from discovery—but while the battle yet raged for a few more precious minutes, there was a moment of reprieve here.

Could one of the walls be scaled, as Valjean had done when he had escaped Javert before? Could a window be found, or a door be forced open?

Bu the façade of the house was forbidding, the windows nailed shut, the doors resisting all earlier attempts of the defendants to beg for succor.

Was Valjean to entrust himself into God’s hands once more, to retreat to the tap-room and hope that they would not be shot before Javert could vouch for them?

Valjean leaned back against the wall in despair.

Then he realized that there, in front of him, the paving stones were torn up. Among them, a grating was situated.

When he stepped forward to study it, he saw that this grating was large enough that a man might pass through. Beneath it, everything was black.

Where did this darkness lead? He did not know. Nevertheless, at that moment, the blackness beyond seemed more inviting than the rain of bullets that was certain to fill the wine-shop soon enough, and so he knelt down, releasing Marius for a moment, and grabbed hold of the iron bars.


	84. Chapter 84

Time passed slowly. Javert’s shoulder ached. The bandages seemed to have stemmed the bleeding; even so, the blood loss had weakened him, and he did not dare to fight against his bonds for fear that it might reopen the wound.

He had to conserve his strength. When the barricade fell, only his testimony would be able to save Valjean. He had to stay conscious until then, and pray that the insurgents would keep their word, and that he would not be killed by a stray bullet.

There was a moment of silence. A minute later, the shots started again. With a groan, Javert, who had been half hopeful that the barricade had been finished, slumped back against the table again.

There was no one left in the tap-room with him. His only company were the corpses and the wounded which Valjean kept carrying in, tending to their wounds as though they would not all die ere the hour was out.

Yet Valjean had not returned from his latest foray into the battle raging outside. Again Javert twisted his head to try and catch a glimpse of what was going on outside the window. He could make out nothing but shifting shadows.

A minute later, the door to the tap-room opened and the insurgents began to spill in.

Their faces were grim, many of them bleeding. Even so, they began to barricade the door, then searched the room for what ammunition they had left. In their midst, the golden-haired leader stood; Javert craned his head in vain as he looked for Valjean.

All of a sudden, his wound ached again as his heart convulsed in his chest. Had Valjean been lost? Had he died in what had to have been the final assault on the barricade?

Many of them must have died. He had taken their numbers, back when he had worked among them. The men who now filled the tap-room were less than half of those who had built the barricade. He recognized many of the students whose names he had memorized for the report to his superiors: there was Enjolras, the instigator of this riot; there was Combeferre, the student who had watched him whip Valjean; there was Joly, a student of medicine; and there Bahorel, a student of law.

He realized all of a sudden that he had never asked Valjean which of these insurgents had beguiled Cosette. Had the boy died, and Valjean with him? Was Valjean outside, bleeding to death even now while Javert rested helplessly bound inside?

The thought of Valjean’s lifeblood soaking into the stone only steps away from him filled him with such terror that a moment later, he found himself struggling against the ropes, panting like a trapped tiger.

He did not quiet until a hand came to rest on his chest, pressing him back onto the table. When he looked up, he found Enjolras looking down at him, the pale face grim, and his eyes burning like flame.

“Be quiet,” Enjolras said coldly. “I will keep my promise. It is mere minutes until we will all die. You will live—pray that the future judges you more kindly than I do.”

“Do you think I care whether I live or die?” Javert’s breath came in thin wheezes. Furious, he stared into the insurgent’s eyes. “My word is the only thing that can save him. I’ll live for him; I’ll do whatever I must. But tell me: where is he? Is he dead? Did they take him?”

Javert closed his eyes for a heartbeat, groaning as a terrible pain in his chest made him arch against his bonds.

“If he’s dead, kill me as well.” He hurled the words into Enjolras’ face from behind clenched teeth, not caring how the insurgent might judge him. “Use a knife if you have no bullets left; what do I care what happens without him here to—no,” he then muttered, closing his eyes again as the wound in his shoulder throbbed. His heart was still aching fiercely, new pain searing him with sluggish beat after beat. “I cannot die, not yet; there’s his daughter, someone must—”

“I have not seen him,” Enjolras said. There was a terrible pity in his eyes as he looked down on Javert.

Dimly, Javert could now hear a shouting and banging outdoors.

“They have come through the barricade. There is no place that is safe outside. A bullet might have hit him. Or perhaps, he is their prisoner even now.”

Again Javert groaned. If Valjean had been taken prisoner, he might yet claim him as his informant, a fellow spy…

“But I do not believe that,” Enjolras said, showing him no mercy. “Any prisoner they take will be immediately executed at this point.”

A sound of unspeakable terror and rage escaped Javert; it was a howl as much as a cry.

“Be calm,” Enjolras said and smiled fiercely. “Soon, this will all be over. And perhaps I will see you presently.”

Panting, Javert’s head fell back onto the table.

It could not be true. For Valjean to be taken from him, now, here… It was impossible.

Still panting against the pain in his chest, he twisted his neck to stare at the door. Murmuring amongst each other, the insurgents made their final plans. There was no ammunition left; Enjolras saw to it that bottles aquafortis were passed out.

Then, several of the men took position to guard the entrance, while more retreated to the floor above for their final stand.

Javert panted through his teeth as he watched the door, willing it to open. Could those damned soldiers not hurry up? Any second might be a second too late.

And perhaps Valjean had not been shot; perhaps he was merely wounded, collapsed in a corner behind a wooden beam—perhaps some kindly soul had shown mercy at the last moment and opened a door…

With a loud crash, the door gave and the National Guard spilled in. Shouts and the loud reverberation of shots filled the air.

As desperate as the final stand was, so rapidly it came to an end. With no cartridges left to the defendants, the National Guard did not meet much resistance. Within mere minutes, the tap-room was taken, the floor covered with corpses, and the blue and red coats of the National Guard filled Javert’s vision.

Javert bared his teeth when a man with a musket leaned over him.

“I am Inspector Javert,” he hissed. “They’ve hidden on the top floor. Their leader is there. Cut me free!”

The man drew back after a moment—without killing him, but having apparently come to the conclusion that it was best to leave Javert where he was until the battle was done, and Javert’s claims could be verified.

More precious minutes passed while Javert was breathing rapidly, clenching his teeth as he willed the battle to end. For several minutes, the Guard was held at bay by the bottles of spirit; when that final, desperate barrage ended, the soldiers fired into the ceiling, and soon after, everything was quiet.

Had the men above been killed? Again Javert twisted his neck, trying to find a guard who would search his pocket and find his papers. Instead, he was ignored as more men came in, and at last, the upper floor was taken.

From above, Javert heard distant voices. There was a cadence he recognized—it was that of Enjolras, and he smiled without humor at the thought that this man should be the last to die, who had seemed so eager to die for his cause. And yet, if they were to take Enjolras alive, did it not also stand to reason that Valjean might have been taken alive?

A heartbeat later, a barrage of shots resounded. Afterwards, there was only silence.

Inexplicably, Javert found his eyes burning, and he turned his head to the side to stare at the window once more.

Valjean could not be dead. It was impossible. Valjean, who had cursed him, who frustrated him, who ran again and again and yet who always returned to where he belonged, the safe circle of Javert’s arms…

At last, a pair of guards approached.

“What’s this, then?” one of them demanded. “Are you one of them or were you their prisoner? Speak up!”

Javert groaned as he tensed his hands against the rope.

“I am Inspector Javert, sent by the prefect to spy on the insurgents. Reach into my pocket; you’ll find there my papers.”

“A spy, eh?” the man said, snorting. “That’s strange. Why did they not kill you?”

Javert did not reply, forcing himself to keep calm when his pockets were searched. A new flush of heat reddened his face when not only his orders and the round glass badge bearing his name and rank were retrieved, but also the message he had thought his goodbye to Valjean.

The glass badge and the letter from Gisquet was sent to a lieutenant of the company, the letter to Valjean stuffed back into his pocket. Long minutes passed during which Javert listened to the frantic thudding of his heart, his wound pulsing in the same rhythm.

Eventually, a man returned with the lieutenant’s orders, and Javert was freed.

“You’ve been in luck,” the man said grimly. “I received words the prefecture had sent in two men, but you’re the only one left alive. Did they shoot the other?”

Javert’s heart was hammering so hard in his chest that he almost did not hear the words the man spoke. He groaned as he sat up, one hand clutching his wounded shoulder. Blackness dimmed his vision.

No man left alive… What had become of Valjean?

“There was a man they shot,” he finally forced out, ignoring the throbbing of the shot wound. “But never mind him. There was one of my informants here as well—the prefect would not know him, but he tried to help me escape. We nearly made it out through the alley when the leader of the insurgents stopped us. I must find him. He might still be alive—he has information I need before I can report to Gisquet—”

The sergeant snorted, then nodded at one of his men. “There’s no one left alive out there. Don’t waste your time. If you want, search the corpses for your man. But first, you should see a doctor. Maillard, see to it.”

Despite his protests, Javert was escorted to where, at a safe distance from the barricade, a doctor was taking care of the soldiers wounded by the insurgents.

Javert ground his teeth, refusing all offers of laudanum or a transport to the hospital.

“Well then,” the doctor said at last in obvious annoyance, “there’s no more I can do for you. You should be in bed. If you want to run around and open that wound again, I can hardly keep you from it, but in that case it’ll be the morgue where you’ll find rest.”

Javert drew himself up to his full height, ignoring the throbbing of the stitches that had sewed up the wound.

“There is work yet to be done,” he said stiffly. “But I thank you for your concern.”

That done, he hurried back to the barricade, where soldiers had begun searching and lining up the corpses of the fallen insurgents. Hastily, Javert walked past the dead, barely daring to breathe as, once, he spied locks of a distinctive white. He had already begun to kneel, his fingers so cold they refused to take hold of the fabric wrapped around the man, when recognition rushed in.

It was not Valjean. It was an old man—one of the first to fall. Someone had called him Father Mabeuf; it was he who had rested on the table next to Javert in the tap-room.

His breath escaping him in a hiss of relief, Javert forced himself upright once more, his vision turning black for a moment. He blinked back the weakness that threatened to overwhelm him. The time for rest and food would come—but not now. Not now, when perhaps, Valjean was still alive, and Javert’s word the only thing that might save him…

He did not find Valjean’s corpse, even among the men still scattered beyond the barricade, where the soldiers had not yet made order.

There was the corpse of the girl who had seemed strangely familiar—and there, not far from her, the corpse of Le Cabuc, which he and his helpers had thrown beyond the smaller barricade there.

For a moment, Javert remained standing on the top of that barricade, clutching at his shoulder as his gaze went back and forth from the fallen girl to the executed spy.

His head ached. In his heart, there was only emptiness—and distantly, the howling of a vast abyss, as fierce as that of wolves.

He did not pay attention to it. Not yet. That abyss would swallow him soon enough—but for now, he had need of his senses.

There were no other corpses to be found. Valjean had not died here. Might he have managed to run after all? There were troops stationed further down the Mondétour lane—but Valjean was crafty as a fox and strong as a bull. If no secret door had opened for him, perhaps he had done the impossible and scaled a wall, finding refuge through some window high above…

As Javert’s eyes slowly gazed at the forbidding walls rising to both sides of him, he knew in his heart that it was not so. Valjean had refused to leave because there was that accursed student he had come for; he would not be able to climb with a man his own size on his back. Unless that insurgent had been killed as well, Valjean would have sought to escape with him.

Restless, Javert stepped down from the barricade and took a few steps into the Rue Mondétour. His legs took him past the corpse of the executed spy. He paid him no attention at first, but as he studied the houses around him, hoping for a sign that a door might have opened somewhere, his eyes, by chance, came to rest on the face of Le Cabuc once more.

All of a sudden, a shudder ran through Javert. For a heartbeat, he stood frozen, staring at the pale face smeared with blood which had trickled from the wound.

Then, hastily, he stepped towards him. With a hissed groan of pain, he knelt down by his side. He fisted a handful of hair and pulled the corpse’s head up.

Lifeless eyes stared at him. Again Javert remembered the strangely familiar cadence of his voice, and the corpse of the girl he had passed.

In his head, it all began to make a terrible sense. He _had_ seen the girl before—she had been grabbed in the raid on the Gorbeau house, one of Thénardier’s children, who had been sent to the Madelonettes. And now, too, Javert realized where he had heard that voice before.

“Le Cabuc,” he said, his lips pulling back for a humorless laugh. “Or should I say Claquesous? What a merry disguise this is. But it seems the audience was not charmed, the comedy was embarrassing, the vaudeville demanded a tragic role, and the ventriloquist had to play an unfamiliar part.”

Still smiling, he let Claquesous’ head drop back into the dirt when he remembered all of a sudden what the insurgents had suspected.

“The stench of Gisquet to him, he said,” Javert muttered, grinding his teeth as he stared down at the lifeless eyes. “Impossible. And yet, the sergeant knew him; yes, he had been told in advance that Le Cabuc would be here, and Le Cabuc being Claquesous, who escaped from that coach just when we finally had him arrested…”

Impossible that the prefect should play such a trick on him. Might it not rather be true that Claquesous had tricked them in turn, that his superiors had believed the man to truly be Le Cabuc, a man with no connections to Patron-Minette, and that Claquesous had played that part masterfully, attempting to play both sides and building up to an even grander crime?

Javert raised a hand to his head, surprised to find it shaking. For a moment, everything seemed to spin before his eyes. With difficulty, he forced himself to straighten, holding on to the barricade to regain his composure.

Whatever was behind the disguise of Claquesous, it would have to wait. He still had not found Valjean.

He had not found his corpse either, which was promising—but it did not change the fact that Valjean was gone.

Had he perhaps managed to escape after all, only to be taken by a patrol in the streets beyond?

For the next twenty minutes, Javert searched out the leaders of the companies stationed in the alleys surrounding the barricade, but no one had seen sight of a man who fit Valjean’s description.

The news were reassuring; Valjean, despite the odds, had not died when the barricade fell. Perhaps, even now, he was awaiting Javert back at home…

Still, Javert did not dare to leave the barricade. Something seemed to bind him to this place. To leave now, to return to the Rue Plumet, or perhaps Valjean’s new apartment, and to find it deserted again, and to later discover that Valjean had died here in this place which Javert had so untimely abandoned…

Morosely, he sat down on the smaller barricade again. Here, too, guards were now at work, removing the two corpses. Javert watched them without paying attention, contemplating the paths open to him.

Gisquet would anticipate his report—and yet, the barricade had fallen. That business was less pressing now. The leader of the insurgents had been executed; Gisquet would still want his report, but would not care if it was delivered later today.

What road did that leave him? Perhaps he could inquire at the surrounding morgues. Or perhaps, there might be news at the prefecture after all about an arrest of a white-haired insurgent…

The sound of voices finally drew Javert from his reverie. When he looked up, he saw that several of the men had stopped before a grating in the ground, watching as their sergeant gestured at it.

As if in a trance, Javert found himself rising and slowly moving closer. The sergeant gave him an unfriendly look when he saw him, but did not cease to speak.

“If you cannot lift it, leave it. We have words from the prefect that there are men already gone underground at the Rue du Cadran; if some of the men sought to escape through the sewers, they will flush them out.”

Silently, Javert stared at the iron grating. Loose stones surrounded it; the iron looked heavy, but he well remembered a strong back lifting a cart, and later, a tree…

“Is there something we can do for you, Inspector?” the sergeant said with the open disdain such men reserved for a police spy.

“I, too, am tasked with looking into the business of these sewers,” Javert said and showed his teeth in a grim smile. “Those men you spoke of—where do they gather?”


	85. Chapter 85

Everything was dark. At first, Valjean was not even certain where he had ended up. With the memory of the battle raging all around him and the urgency of the boy’s wounds, he seemed reduced to instinct, left with nothing but the terror of a hunted animal and the obstinacy of a beast reduced to pulling its burden until the day it dies.

Now, there was only one way forward, so forward he went. Carrying the wounded body of the boy on his back, he walked deeper into the darkness, which soon had completely swallowed him.

For long minutes he continued, no longer certain whether he was alive or dead. It seemed to him that he had taken a step forward towards something looming horrible and cold in the distance.

Even now, it was possible to change his path. All he had to do was set the boy down and allow him to die in this darkness that had swallowed them. Let the National Guard’s rifles finish their work: Valjean would be blameless, and had he not already given more than could be asked from any man?

Instead, step after step, he moved onward.

After several minutes, the path they were following ended into another dark road much like it. From somewhere above, the barest hint of light fell in. After he had mutely stared at what was before him for a long moment, Valjean at last realized where he was.

Fate had led him into the sewers. The tunnel they had followed, which had been mostly dry, here joined up with one of the larger tunnels, which carried rainwater past them. In the gloom, he could barely make out the path that led deeper into the darkness, running along by the side of the rushing water.

After a moment, Valjean shouldered Marius again and began to follow that path. There was no light except for the spot of brightness that came falling in from somewhere before them. It took several minutes until he reached it. When he came close enough, he found that here, another side canal joined the larger sewer—and not far from the entrance, rays of light were entering from above.

He set Marius down. Then he began to explore.

A hole was hewn into the rocky wall of the canal. It mirrored the entrance they had found in the Rue Mondétour, leading straight up towards the surface. There were iron rungs in the wall for a man to step on, and Valjean hurriedly ascended, eagerly breathing in the fresh air.

His ascent ended when he found another iron grating barring the way. This time, no matter how much he strained against it, it would not give way, until finally, he had to abandon the endeavor and return into the gloom where Marius waited.

How much time had passed? The battle might already be over. Had Javert been found? Had a doctor looked at his wounds? Was Javert safe; would he live?

His heart clenching in his chest, Valjean made himself move forward steadily, ignoring the blood that still dripped from Marius’ face. There was no time left to lose. God had made him bear this terrible burden; perhaps, God would be kind and lift it from him, Marius expiring down here in the sewers before Valjean had a chance to return him to his family.

And yet, little by little, that thought took on a hideous note. If Marius were to die down here, would it not be just that Javert would also die up there? Valjean had chosen to save one and abandon the other; yet it was impossible to save Javert by abandoning Marius. It was Marius who had led him to the barricade in time to rescue Javert. Now Jean Valjean would have to fulfil his part—to rescue Marius’ life surely had to mean that in turn, Javert would live. God could not ask him to give up the sun of his life and take away the light of the moon as well.

The roar of the water increased. The sound came from somewhere before him. With nothing to guide him through the darkness but the walls of the tunnel and the rushing of the water, Valjean followed it. Eventually, he would have to find a grating that had been loosened, like the one that had been their entrance into this strange underworld.

Valjean could not say how long he walked, or how much time passed. The dull roar that had beckoned from the distance became so loud upon reaching the intersection where it met their tunnel that it turned his own thoughts into an answering thunder. Twice, he had followed another, smaller side tunnel; twice, he found himself thwarted by gratings of heavy iron that were locked securely into stone.

Marius was still alive, but had not regained consciousness. This suited Valjean, who kept carrying him on his back as he made his way forward. Every now and then, thoughts of Javert resurfaced in his tormented mind and he strode forward through the darkness with renewed determination. Every time this happened, the endless darkness and the roar of the water eventually drew him back into the abyss where his mind had dwelled during the past days, terrified to imagine the fate that awaited him if he were to bring the boy on his back out alive.

Valjean had neither slept nor eaten in more than a day. Nevertheless, he persevered without rest, even though his steps were slow; he did not dare to set Marius down for fear that he would not be able to get back up again.

At last, following the roaring canal, he came to what seemed to be a larger intersection. Here, several tunnels came together, each bearing more water. The walkway along the side of the canal was broader, and it seemed to Valjean that the air was fresher, too, as if from somewhere nearby, cool air was entering the maze of tunnels.

In the terrible gloom, he turned, uncertain. For a long moment, he hesitated. Then, he continued on his way, choosing a tunnel that seemed to lead slightly upwards, praying that this meant it would eventually end in a gate, which he might force open.

There was nothing but the deafening rush of the water alongside his small path. Every now and then he paused, shifting the burden on his back.

Even now, there were moments when he thought that the boy might die here in the sewers, and he would be delivered from that terrible fate he could see yawning before him. But even now, there was a different fear that made him tremble.

Perhaps, for those shameful thoughts that had nearly kept him at home at first, it was only right that Javert should be taken from him. But if he were to keep Cosette, yet lose Javert…

Everything was a roar within his mind, blackness swirling amidst the fear and selfishness of his desires. To lose Javert was terrifying. How had he not thought of it earlier? For a long while, all other thought had been crushed by the terror of seeing his Cosette already taken from him by the boy on his back.

But if Javert were to die…

Unsettled, he continued forward into the darkness, his heart clenching when brief memories of Javert’s lips against his nape and the sensation of waking in a warm embrace resurfaced.

Could one do without those things?

One could. He had done without for so many years. 

And yet, he no longer wanted to. Was it so much to ask for things to remain as they were? Had they not all been happy? Had he not given up so much already?

At long last, the gloom before him seemed to lift. He paused for a moment, Marius motionless and silent on his back.

And then, in the blackness before him, there was a movement, like that of shifting shadows. Tall forms moved in the darkness. Every now and then, there was the impression of a terrible, lidless eye turning, a gaze of fearful orange penetrating the blackness as if before him was some hydra sprung from the darkness, which was incessantly searching for a victim to devour.

Struck by sudden terror, Valjean remained silent and motionless, pressing himself against the wall as the eye searched. There was a rumble every now and then, low sounds, the syllables echoing in his ears although his mind was too overcome to make sense of what he heard.

Once, he dared to take a step backward, thinking to retreat into the gloom before the apparition might spy them. Some stone moved beneath his feet, the sound echoing through the darkness, and immediately the hydra before him halted, shadows waving back and forth as the lidless eye of fire was turned his way.

“There is one of them,” a voice shouted, and another, “It will be another rat, mark my words.”

Then there was the sound of boots on wet stone, and little by little, as the hydra approached and Valjean’s haze of exhaustion gave way to terror, he realized that the monster advancing towards him was made of men.

Too late he understood that he should have turned and run. Already the light of the strange, orange eye—a lantern, he now saw—shone towards him, relentlessly piercing the darkness that had shrouded him. Before him, a group of shadowed figures in uniform approached rapidly.

Even though he knew that it was too late for escape, Valjean turned, Marius still on his back, and took a hasty couple of steps into the dark tunnel he had just navigated.

“Halt,” someone shouted behind him, and a gun was fired. The sound of it echoed through the tunnel; Valjean did not react except for increasing his haste.

And then, out of the darkness before him, another group of men came towards him, carrying lamps whose light revealed that they wore the same uniform as those that pursued him.

For a moment, Valjean stood frozen, his heart pounding with horror. He eyed the rushing water beside him. Could a man survive such an underground river? And yet, were he to wait and remain, Marius would die, and if Valjean was not shot himself, he would find himself behind bars once more within the hour.

Then one man stepped forward from the group advancing towards him. The man was wearing a simple, brown coat, but the imposing figure was familiar.

Valjean’s breath caught in his throat. He took a step towards him even before he fully realized who was standing there.

Javert. It was Javert who had come towards him, and who now raised a lamp, illuminating the familiar features, his face lined with tiredness even though his eyes gleamed with a fevered determination.

“Halt,” Javert shouted. “Don’t shoot! That man belongs to us.”

Exhausted and confused, Valjean waited until the specter of Javert stepped towards him. Javert was ghostly pale, and Valjean felt a sudden fear constrict around his heart. Had Javert died after all, and had now his ghost come to haunt Valjean and demand payment for the pain Valjean had caused him?

Only after he had reached out and rested a trembling hand against Javert’s breast did Valjean realize that what he had deemed Javert’s specter was the man himself, and that the apparitions behind him were men in the uniform of the police, come to search the sewers.

Valjean ignored them as he raised his tired eyes to Javert’s face, still bearing the burden of Marius’ body on his shoulders.

“But you are wounded,” Valjean began. “How…?”

“It’s of no consequence,” Javert snapped, although he flinched when Valjean’s hand traveled towards his shoulder. “Come now. I have been searching for you. Gisquet awaits us; he wants what news we can give him of the insurrection. I see you shot the last of the insurgents; that was well done. Let’s carry him out and deliver him to the morgue.”

“Not so hasty now,” one of the police agents who had come closer said. Suspiciously, the man lifted his lamp and peered into their faces. “How do I know you are who you claim? There’s vermin crawling through these tunnels; you might as well be one of those rats.”

“I am Inspector Javert,” Javert said, drawing himself up to his full height, although Valjean could see him clench his teeth as if to suppress a sound of pain. “Here; this shall suffice.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a round placard of paper covered by glass.

The man who had questioned him accepted it, then turned away to study it in the light of a lamp.

“He speaks the truth,” one of the agents behind Javert now said impatiently. “He’s one of Gisquet’s spies; the National Guard freed him when the barricade fell and brought him to us. Come now, let’s not waste our time with a spy when there might be insurgents yet crawling through these tunnels.”

The man returned the placard to Javert, then nodded. “Take care not to run into any other of my men,” he said, laughing darkly. “In the darkness, there’s not much of a difference between insurgent, cutthroat or spy.”

“Thank you,” Javert said brusquely. Then he thrust the placard back into his pocket and raised his lamp. "Come along then. Let’s get out of here and get that body to the morgue.”

Valjean blinked tiredly before he followed, his exhausted mind only catching up slowly.

Were they truly free to go? Had none of the men noticed that, although Marius’ face was covered in blood, he yet lived?

Or, it suddenly came to him, had Marius perhaps died while he had carried him on his shoulders…?

Surely that would solve all of his troubles—but now, with Javert so miraculously returned to him, and with freedom almost in their grasp, he no longer dared to hope that all his fears might be solved so easily.

Javert was alive. They were both free. And if God demanded of him to make that greatest sacrifice in turn and return Marius to his family, which meant to see Cosette taken from him—no, to give her up willingly even!—then that was a blow he could no longer turn away from, now that Javert’s life had been spare.

His thoughts still muddled and lost in darkness, he hastened along behind Javert, barely aware of where they went. Javert did not talk, but every now and then he turned and touched his arm, as if to reassure himself that Valjean had not been lost.

At last, there was a growing light before them. As they continued to walk towards it, Valjean heard the sound of voices.

Valjean’s heart began to race again, but Javert continued to go forward with certain steps. His head bent, Valjean followed behind, praying that Marius would not move nor make a sound.

At last, they came to a gate. Here was one of the places where men could enter the sewer system, and where the agents who were to search the tunnels north of the river had made their headquarters.

Here, too, was where Javert must have entered, for the men recognized him and willingly unlocked the gate for him.

For a moment, a discussion sprang up when the men discussed what was to be done with the corpse they had found; Javert cut the decision short when he declared that he would deliver it to the morgue himself on his way to the prefecture.

Valjean was too exhausted to hear what was said to him in return. He swayed beneath his burden, watching as blood dripped from Marius’ face to stain the ground.

Would Marius stir now? Would the game be revealed; would Marius be taken to a cell, along with Valjean himself?

He was so tired he could not even feel fear anymore, just a deep, soul-crushing weariness that made this looming precipice seem almost like a relief. If he were to fall, then might not at last that terrible weight on his shoulders be lifted…?

Instead, Valjean was ushered into a carriage. He released Marius, the pale body slumping into the seat next to him. Then Valjean closed his eyes, leaning back as the events of the past day caught up with him. How many hours since he had last eaten or slept? He could not say. Even now he felt as if he was falling, a beckoning blackness beneath him as the light of Cosette vanished far above him.

And yet, once he had fallen as far as he could, might there not be a moment of rest…?

Tiredly, he opened his eyes when the carriage began to move. They were making their way over uneven pavement stones, the carriage swaying back and forth as the wheels jumped across the stones.

But Valjean barely realized what was happening.

In front of him, Javert had taken a seat on the opposite side of the carriage. The seats were upholstered with a fine, red velvet. Valjean paid no attention to it, for Javert had slumped against the back of the carriage, his face ghostly pale and his eyes closed. Javert’s hand was clutching at his shoulder—and there, beneath his tight grip, a wetness had begun to spread across the fabric of his coat.


	86. Chapter 86

“Javert?”

Everything was dark. For one moment, there was blessed silence.

Then there was the voice again.

“Javert?”

It sounded more urgent now. A moment later, Javert became aware of a hand on his arm, and as he struggled to open his eyes, it all came back to him in a rush.

The barricade. The sewers. _Valjean._

It was the familiar face of Jean Valjean that peered at him, almost unrecognizable under a layer of grime and sewage. Still, Javert would have recognized him anywhere.

Despite himself, a smile tugged on the corner of his lips.

“We made it,” Javert said hoarsely. “Let’s get rid of that boy first. And then… I need to report to M. Gisquet. I’ll make no mention of you; or at most, call you one of my spies. He won’t care. He has never inquired after my informants before; you could be just another beggar for all he—”

There was a sudden, burning pain as the carriage shook and turned a corner. Javert found himself clutching at his shoulder again, hissing at the throbbing ache.

“Javert,” Valjean murmured, his voice trembling as he gently pulled Javert’s hand aside. “Did you come back for me despite your wound? He shot you; you shouldn’t have—”

Valjean fell silent as soon as he pulled open Javert’s coat.

Javert turned his head with difficulty, then laughed hoarsely. The formerly white shirt was stained with a large patch of dried blood—only now, new red had begun to blossom.

“It opened again,” he muttered. “Well, no matter. It’s nothing.”

“You need a doctor. You should be in bed—you should never have come,” Valjean said anxiously, searching for a cloth he could use, at last making use of Javert’s own, moderately clean cravat to stem the flow.

“I need to report to—”

“You need a doctor,” Valjean said. “Hush now.”

Javert laughed voicelessly. He did not have the strength to argue. His limbs felt cold, and darkness was beginning to encroach on his vision.

Still, there in the carriage before him was Jean Valjean—unharmed and free. It was a miracle that they had escaped. What did it matter if Javert died now? Valjean would live, and he would live without chains, which was more than Javert had dared to hope for mere hours ago.

And perhaps Jean Valjean was right. Javert’s report would be of little importance to the prefect, now that the insurgents were dead and the barricade had fallen.

“Give me your hand,” he murmured after a moment. He could not quite find the strength to reach out for Valjean; all he managed was to rest his hand on his knee, his palm up.

A moment later, Valjean’s hand found his, their fingers entwining.

Javert stared at the sight, then he smiled.

“Still mine,” he murmured, satisfied, and when he raised his eyes to Valjean, he saw that Valjean was watching him.

“Always,” Valjean said softly.

Valjean’s eyes gleamed. Were those tears?

That was well… Valjean deserved to suffer a little for the night of anguish Javert had spent in an empty house.

But not too much.

“Not too much, do you hear me?” he muttered, trying to smile again when the look Valjean gave him was one of confusion.

Then everything went dark.

When he woke again, it took him a long time to open his eyes. His lids seemed as heavy as stone; it was a struggle to drag himself out of the haze of already forgotten dreams. When he at last succeeded, he found himself in an unfamiliar bed.

It was a bedroom he had not seen before—but there, in a chair by his side, was Jean Valjean.

Javert smiled, still not quite able to make sense of the mist that seemed to envelop his mind. What time was it? How had he come here? He could not say. There was a distant ache in the back of his mind, pulsing steadily, and when he tried to shift a little, it turned into pain.

But even the pain was distant, like a thing happening to another person which he could not quite see with the heavy mist that clouded his vision.

Then Valjean stirred.

“Javert? Are you awake? How do you feel?”

Javert blinked tiredly, trying to make sense of the question. He felt as if he was floating in a strange twilight, not awake and not asleep either. He could not force his tongue to produce words, even when he tried—but regardless Valjean came closer, his hand gently cupping his cheek.

“You should sleep,” Valjean whispered. “The doctor said you need lots of rest. You tore your stitches when you came after me—do you remember that? You lost even more blood. The doctor sewed you up again, but I fear it will leave quite a scar. And when you wake, the doctor left orders as to how to replenish the blood you lost. It will be liver for weeks now. Toussaint is quite faint with worry for you.”

He paused a little. His hand was still touching Javert’s face, his fingers trembling against his skin.

Valjean’s eyes were wet, and as Javert watched, tears began to flow down Valjean’s cheeks.

“Do you remember when you told me that there is no use in me playing the bourgeois, that there are things I cannot have, that I must be content with what I have been given? I realize now that you were right, Javert. When you are well again, everything will change. I will no more dress like a retired officer and take Cosette to the park. No more will I wear the uniform of the National Guard or play the elector. It will be as you knew it must be. Perhaps we can find a small house somewhere else. Somewhere where it is quiet, and where no neighbors will disturb us. No more will I buy trinkets for Cosette, or go out to give alms. I will wear a workingman’s clothes, and work with my hands in our little garden, and there will be plain bread on our table. But you will be there, Javert, won’t you? Say that you will be there with me. I know now what must be done, and I know now that I must live and drink that cup down to the last bitter dregs, for that is the price I had to pay for your life. But say that you will be there with me; say that even a man like me might have the light of the moon after the sun has set forever…”

There was no sense in Valjean’s words. Even as Javert strove to listen through the distant throb of pain and the haze that seemed to surround him like impenetrable fog, he felt himself sinking back under.

Valjean was upset; he felt that much. And so, with his last moment of awareness, he turned his head, his lips brushing Valjean’s hand.

Then sleep claimed him once more.

***

The next time Javert woke, much of the fog in his mind had vanished. He greeted the clearness in his head with approval—yet mere seconds later, he came to regret that hasty judgment, for as soon as he shifted, a piercing pain struck him and made him pant.

“Javert! No, don’t move,” the familiar voice of Valjean said hurriedly from somewhere in the room. A moment later, Javert felt gentle hands hold him down against the bed.

Javert bared his teeth in displeasure. “You may let go of me,” he said crossly, his throat feeling rough and parched, as if he had swallowed sand. “I hurt rather too much to attempt to move again.”

“Forgive me,” Valjean said softly and retreated. A moment later, he held a glass against Javert’s lips. “Here. You must be thirsty. Toussaint has some broth prepared for you. Good bone marrow to put some blood back into you. She is very worried.”

Greedily, Javert swallowed, uncaring that some spilled onto his shirt. He felt thirsty, and although he had to stop half-way through, his throat still ached, as though he had walked for hours through a desert.

Carefully, Valjean wiped the spilled water away with a cloth, then held the glass to his lips again. “More?”

Javert nodded weakly, then swallowed when Valjean tilted the glass again.

He could not even bring himself to feel shame at being treated like a child; all he could feel was an immense relief at the cool liquid on his tongue.

At last, when the glass was empty, Valjean put it aside, then rested his fingers against Javert’s cheek for a moment.

“You need to eat, the doctor was quite adamant about that. After you are done, you are to have more laudanum against the pain. You will promise me not to move while I fetch the broth from the kitchen?”

Javert nodded curtly, unwilling to relive the sharp pain. He remembered now what had come to pass—all of it. The barricade. The insurgents who had taken him prisoner. The bullet he had taken, the way Valjean had pleaded for his life—and at last, the trek into the dark labyrinth of the sewers, into which he had wandered much like Orpheus, and from which he had retrieved an Eurydice who had followed him back into the light even with the burden of a wounded insurgent.

How strange those hours now seemed. Had he truly begged Enjolras to spare Valjean? Had he truly walked into the sewers wounded, retrieving a man with forged papers and an obscured brand, and a wounded insurgent directly from beneath the eyes of Authority itself?

Voicelessly, he laughed, his teeth bared as he looked up at the ceiling above him.

And he would do it all over again, as long as it meant that Valjean would remain his. 

Moments later, Valjean returned with a steaming bowl. This, too, Javert obediently swallowed. He had not felt hungry; only when the rich broth hit his tongue, fragrant with bone marrow and yellow with fat, did he realize how hungry he was in truth.

He needed no encouragement to finish the bowl.

Exhausted, his head sank back into the pillow afterward. His shoulder still throbbed fiercely. Valjean bent over his nightstand once more. There was the clinking of glass, and a moment later, a spoon nudged his lips.

“More laudanum,” Valjean said. “I will stay by your side all day.”

Javert was too tired to protest—and in either case, he did not want Valjean to leave. Obediently, he swallowed the bitter liquid. Then he turned his head slightly to watch Valjean, who, instead of returning to his chair, painfully went to his knees instead, folding his hands on Javert’s blanket and bowing his head.

Javert could not quite make out the words of his prayer, but as he looked at the bent head and the white locks which he had so often kissed, he felt a burning in his eyes again, his throat suddenly tight once more.

To think that he had almost lost this… His own death had not scared him. He still was not afraid of it. But if Valjean had been shot, or worse, recaptured and his secret revealed…

Silently, taking care not to jar his injured shoulder, Javert reached out with his other hand, gently wrapping his fingers around Valjean’s. Then, at last, he allowed his eyes to fall closed once more.

***

“Unacceptable,” Javert snarled as soon as Valjean entered the room. “It has been a week. You cannot keep me from the Prefecture forever.”

“You have sent M. Gisquet your report by letter,” Valjean said calmly. “Did he not reassure you that it sufficed, until you have recovered?”

“I am well,” Javert said, gritting his teeth. Balefully, he stared at the stash of papers in Valjean’s hand. “I am recovered. The wound is healed.”

“Only barely,” Valjean said. “The doctor suggested at least another week of Doctor Blaud’s iron pills. And if you were to tear the wound open again—”

“Bah. Am I a schoolgirl now? It’s high time I return—”

Just then there was the sound of someone coming up the stair outside his room, and a moment later, a knock on the door.

“Monsieur Javert? Are you awake?” Cosette’s voice called out, and Javert grimaced before he grimly bade her enter.

Ever since he had convinced Valjean to return to their home in the Rue Plumet, it seemed that there had been barely a moment of quiet to be shared with Valjean. Cosette now claimed most of Valjean’s afternoons, needing his company for her visits to that insurgent’s home to deliver baskets of lint.

“How well you look today,” she said brightly, clutching a large armful of larkspur and snapdragons in different shades of blue and purple. “Here, I brought these for you from the garden. Don’t they brighten up this grim room of yours?”

Despite Javert’s scowl, she merrily began to arrange them in a vase on his desk.

“How I wish I could bring some to Marius,” she sighed a moment later, but then resolutely turned around once more. “I shall, as soon as he wakes and is well enough to admire them. How do you feel today, monsieur?”

Marius Pontmercy, Javert had learned during the past few days, was the boy who had dared to write to her, without his or Valjean’s knowledge. He could not recall having seen him during the hours before his capture; still, it rankled him that one of those insurgents should have dared to be friendly with Cosette, and so scandalously without their knowledge.

“I am well,” Javert said brusquely. “And I would be even better if your father would let me out of this bed, so that I could return to doing my job.”

“It is a beautiful day,” Cosette said after a moment. “The sun is shining. It’s warm in the garden. Perhaps, father, you could sit outside with Monsieur Javert for half an hour? The fresh air might do him good.”

“And no more of Toussaint’s liver or the cod oil,” Javert snapped. “I am quite well. The Moniteur and my tin of snuff, that’s all I require today.”

“I will tell Toussaint that you will sit outside while I finish my basket of lint,” Cosette said brightly, as if she hadn’t heard his demands. “And afterwards we shall go to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, while Monsieur Javert can rest some more.”

“Oh for—” Javert grumbled, his diatribe cut short by the sound of the door closing behind Cosette. “That girl. Rest! As if that’s so easy! There’s work to be done—and yes, Jean Valjean, there is the matter of that accursed boy. Well, he might die yet. And wouldn’t that be a relief!”

“Javert,” Valjean said with gentle remonstration, resting a hand on Javert’s.

Javert laughed soundlessly as he looked at him. At last, he bent his head in acquiescence. “The garden it is. But I tell you, I will have the Moniteur—and I will have no more of Toussaint’s liver.”

The garden was quiet. It was, Javert thought, quite beautiful, just as Cosette had promised. It was not oppressively hot, despite the season, and they sat companionably on a bench beneath the apple tree, shaded from the sun by the leaves above them. 

Birds were singing. The air smelled of flowers. Every now and then, a bee buzzed past them. It was good to be back home.

After a long moment, Valjean’s hand found his own, their fingers entwining, and Javert exhaled. The Moniteur rested forgotten in his lap as he turned and studied Valjean’s face. Could it truly be over? Just a few days ago, he had thought Valjean lost, dead or arrested.

Yet now here they were, together and at peace, the old disguise holding: two men sharing a house and a garden, sheltered from the world around them by walls and trees. No one who passed along the wall outside their garden would ever know that within lived a galley-slave and his former jailer.

“Have there been any more suspicious messages?” Javert demanded after a moment.

Flushing, Valjean shook his head. It had taken Javert a while to make Valjean agree to return to their former home—but the drab apartment Valjean had found in the Rue de l’Homme Armé was hardly suitable for two grown men, one of them wounded, and two women.

Of course, the matter had been made easier when Cosette admitted that it was the boy’s address Valjean had seen, which Marius had scratched into their wall. It did not quite explain the message that had been dropped into Valjean’s lap. Nevertheless, Javert saw no need to run from a house that had been their home for almost three years now, with rosebushes and lilies Valjean had planted and fruit-bearing trees he had pruned.

“It must have been an attempted burglary,” Javert muttered. “How strange. Were it blackmail, surely there would have been more messages upon our return. Well. It explains, at least, the strange noises I heard. Some thief was inspecting our garden. But all that is over now.”

Valjean inclined his head. He did not speak—but his hand was still in Javert’s.

After Javert had reassured himself that the trees blocked them from all curious eyes, he raised that hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to it.

“To sit here with you once more,” he said, hunger rising up within him. “When I thought that I had lost you—you madman, to come to the barricade for that idler! Will you promise me you won’t do such a thing again? Swear it! The agony of seeing you there…”

“But Javert,” Valjean said very gently. “Had I not come, you might be dead now.”

“No matter,” Javert said tersely. “Better that than to live and know you gone. Have I not told you that you must always be mine?”

Valjean smiled. There was something sweet to the turn of his mouth, and something strangely sad.

“But what about me, Javert? How would I go on all alone? You must not ask such things of me. Don’t you see that I’m already yours?”

“You would go on very well without me, and that is good. You would have to look after Cosette, after all. Now let’s have no more of this ridiculous talk. You are here, and you are mine, and all is as it should be.”

Valjean inclined his head again, his eyes lowered, and he did not speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liver, cod liver oil and bone marrow are all historical remedies for blood loss/anemia, but apparently exactly in 1832 in France, [Dr. Blaud began curing anemia or "chlorosis" by his iron pills.](https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=jglFsz5EJR8C&lpg=PA44&dq=Pierre%20Blaud%20i&hl=de&pg=PA44#v=onepage&q=Pierre%20Blaud&f=false)


	87. Chapter 87

They took a carriage to the Marais. Cosette distractedly watched the streets from the window, her basket of lint next to her, while Valjean in turn watched her. He did not speak much; every now and then, Cosette exclaimed about the people they were passing, and Valjean found himself smiling at the sound of her voice, then grow gloomy again. How much longer would he hear it?

When they reached the house in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, he entered together with Cosette, his eyes moving along the paintings and the ornate wallpaper without truly taking in any details. Again he heard Javert’s admonishment in his mind. 

No, this was no place for him. He saw it plainly now. No galley-slave could sit at the table of such a house.

And no galley-slave could be father to a girl who was to marry the young Baron Pontmercy.

After they had delivered their basket of lint and whiled away an hour with idle chatter in the drawing room of the boy’s grandfather, Valjean was relieved to leave the large house.

Cosette, in turn, was relieved because M. Gillenormand had recounted the doctor’s reassurance that M. Marius seemed to slowly gain in strength and might be nearly out of danger.

He would live—and in turn, Valjean would lose the light of his life.

He watched Cosette as she pressed her face to the window, a distant smile on her face as she looked at the shops the carriage passed. Was she imagining the life she would have in that large house by Marius’ side?

Valjean thought of her tiny hand in his, the way the thin body had clung, trembling, to his mare the night when he had told her to hide in the stable. How quiet she had been when they had fled through the forest, Javert and Cosette on the horse, Thénardier and the road-mender in pursuit.

And how that terrified child had bloomed in the convent, the bruised body and the black eye of the waif he had rescued growing into a cheerful child who had laughed and played with her friends in the garden.

No more would he hear her laugh. No more would she take his hand and smile and call him _father_.

A tear threatened to fall at the realization, and he quickly turned away from her and looked out of his window.

It would be for the best. She would be happy. She would have all she desired. What did it matter what happened to him?

And then, there was still Javert. Javert was not well; Javert had nearly died and needed him. Javert would understand what had to be done; Javert would make it easier for him.

God had taken Cosette away, but given him Javert’s life instead. Valjean would suffer—but he would not suffer alone.

Javert was in bed when Valjean returned, looking grim despite the sunlight that fell in through the open window. The Moniteur was on his lap, although Valjean’s entrance was greeted with such a look of relief that Javert must not have found anything to keep his attention.

Valjean felt a surge of gratitude on his heart as he looked at him. How easy it was to remember the starved face of Cosette; how difficult it was to think of Javert as he had been then!

And how selfish it was to desire to keep Cosette’s love when God had not only delivered him from slavery, but given him companionship and tenderness at his age.

“There you are,” Javert said curtly.

Even in the short greeting, Valjean could hear his relief. The doctor desired Javert to remain in bed and heal, but Valjean was not certain for how much longer that could be accomplished. Javert was slowly growing stronger, and once he was able to walk without help, he would certainly desire to return to the station-house as soon as possible.

“Did you sleep some more?” Valjean asked as he came to sit by Javert’s side.

“Sleep!” Javert exclaimed, giving him a baleful look. “Have I not slept for weeks already? I’ve had enough of sleep and dreams. The wound is healed; it’s time I return to my post. The prefect—”

“A few more days of rest, the doctor said.”

Valjean reached out to gently cover Javert’s hand with his own. As soon as their skin touched, Javert turned his hand around, his fingers clenching with surprising strength around Valjean’s wrist.

Valjean felt his mouth go dry, staring at Javert—almost grateful for the sudden tension in the room, for the misery that seemed to be a steady companion these days had finally quieted.

“What if I am tired of rest?” Javert asked in a low voice.

Valjean drew in a trembling breath, lowering his eyes. He could feel the weight of Javert’s eyes on him. The grip of Javert’s fingers around his wrist was hard and demanding, but not unwelcome.

The shackles he wore these days were voluntary—and to be shackled by affection was not so bad. At times, it seemed that the bonds that bound him to Javert were his only lifeline in the darkness that gaped before him.

Hesitantly, he raised his eyes to Javert’s again. Then, slowly, he slipped his other hand beneath the covers.

Javert groaned as soon as his fingers slipped up Javert’s thigh. His eyes were still on Valjean, dark and intense, although he made no move, leaving it to Valjean to push up his shirt beneath the covers and search out his prick with questing fingers.

When Valjean found him, he was already hard. Javert tilted his head back against the headboard, a low, satisfied groan escaping him. His eyes slid half shut, although he kept watching Valjean.

Slowly, Valjean stroked him. There was something comforting to the heat and the weight of Javert’s arousal in his hand, the sensation familiar. He could not take his eyes off Javert’s face, although it still made him flush to be scrutinized in such a way. To think that a week ago, Javert had knelt in an alley, blood dripping from his shoulder as he had pleaded for Valjean’s life…

Javert groaned again when Valjean smoothed his finger over the crown of his shaft, spreading the wetness there.

Javert would be well again. A few more days, and it would no longer be possible to keep him in bed. Instead, Javert would return to his work, and the boy in the Marais would continue to heal, and Valjean’s own life would not end but go on despite everything.

There would be no need to keep the house, with Cosette gone. They would find a small place somewhere, with two bedrooms and a study, and a woman to come for a few hours to cook for them every day. At night, he would give himself up to Javert and it would be as it had been so long ago: an embrace his only light in the darkness, and he would endure and perhaps even learn gratefulness again.

“You look strange,” Javert said, his breathing harsh.

He was still very pale, his face sallow, although a week of Dr. Blaud’s pills and the liver and fish oil had seen a steady return of his strength. Now his skin gleamed with perspiration, a dark shadow already visible where Valjean had shaved him this morning.

“What are you thinking of when you look like this, I wonder?”

Guiltily, Valjean lowered his eyes once more, staring at the blanket beneath which the regular, unmistakable motion of his hand could be spied.

In his hand, Javert stood thick and proud, his erection of a coarse health that belied the pallor of his face. There had been other men Valjean had known, long ago, other hands that had furtively moved, out of the sight of the guards in the salle at night.

No, Javert was right: Valjean could not go on playing the bourgeois for Cosette’s sake. But there could, perhaps, be peace nevertheless in the knowledge that he had brought the greatest sacrifice imaginable, and that by his denial, she was granted happiness.

“I think of you,” Valjean said hesitantly when the silence went on for too long, broken only by the sound of Javert’s harsh breathing. “Of how we will have to keep each other warm in the winter. And eventually, spring will come, and then summer, and I will still be yours.”

“Yes.” Javert’s voice was low and rough. “Yes. The days will be warm and long, and there will be no more running, no more spying. And at night, you will take off your shirt for me, and I’ll pull away the covers, and I will look at you as I make you mine.”

Valjean kept the strokes of his hand slow and regular as Javert stared at him. It was good to remember this: that Javert knew him, that Javert had always seen him for who he was, that Valjean would not have to suffer alone this time.

“It will be as it was,” Valjean said softly. “There will be new scars, but you and I, we will be just the same. And I won’t run anymore. Not from you, not from anything.”

Javert tilted back his head, laughing voicelessly even as his breathing grew more labored. “That was what I always wanted. Do you remember? Do you remember what I told you, that I wanted you to be mine, body and soul?”

Valjean inclined his head, a tremor making his hand shake for a moment as he thought back to those heated moments, Javert’s face like that of a demon as he had snarled at him.

“You frustrated me. Just looking at you drove me insane. Well, now I know why. I didn’t know what it was I wanted; I know it now.”

Valjean’s face warmed as he looked down at him. “I’m yours now. Body and soul.”

“I know,” Javert said, low and satisfied. “I know…”

Then he gasped, his body tensing. A moment later, his release dripped warm over Valjean’s fingers.

Valjean kept stroking him through it with the same careful rhythm, watching the way pleasure transformed Javert’s face: the grimace of clenched teeth and taut tendons no longer a fearful thing, but instead a sight that inspired a great tenderness in him.

It was a tenderness a man could lose himself in—just as, so long ago, he had lost himself in the comfort of rough embraces that staved off the darkness of the night.

He would not be alone. He had Javert. He needed to remember that.

***

The next afternoon, Valjean found himself stopped in the Gillenormand’s drawing room, M. Gillenormand appearing himself to greet them. The old man’s face was animated to such an extent that he appeared almost fevered—but the gleaming of his eyes was brought forth, they learned, by the verdict of the doctor, who had reassured them today, at long last, that Marius was entirely out of danger and would recover, although it might take months.

On former visits, a shroud had seemed to rest over the house, every room filled with an invisible yet impenetrable gloom. Valjean had been glad for it, in a way, for the somber mood suited his own heart, which could not help but beheld these rooms to which he would soon lose Cosette with a deep melancholy.

Now, the rooms seemed brighter, filled by sunlight, the curtains were drawn back, and the grandfather came nearly dancing down the stairs to announce his news.

“If I could but find the man who delivered Marius,” he cried, “oh, I would reward him a hundred times.”

“Has he spoken yet?” Valjean asked, changing the subject, and M. Gillenormand eagerly took the bait.

“This morning, his hand shifted in mine,” he said ecstatically, “and I will swear that his eyelids twitched as well. Surely he was aware of me. Surely he will wake any day now. The doctor said that we must be patient, of course—but he will live, he will live! Oh, what a joyful day!”

Valjean smiled quietly, although within, it seemed to him that this first day of Marius’ recovery was in truth the first day of his own journey towards the grave.

He was feeling grateful now that no one had recognized in him the sewage-covered man who had delivered the boy’s body. How much worse would be this long goodbye; how much more difficult!

But like this, it would all be very easy. His past could not stain Cosette’s happiness; as long as he remained in the background, to fade away like a ghost as soon as the boy had recovered, all would be well.

And in the end, there would be Javert. He had to be grateful for that.

“Father,” Cosette cried out suddenly, just when they had entered their carriage again and made their way past the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine. 

Valjean froze, terror making his heart beat fast, already imagining himself caught once more.

“What is it, Cosette?”

Cosette pressed her face against the window, then hastily drew back. She looked pale.

“It’s nothing,” she said after a moment. “I thought I saw a face… A face that seemed strangely familiar. It was a girl, wearing a ragged shirt—but that is quite foolish, is it not? It could have been anyone. It could have been any of the girls I used to teach at Saint-Sulpice. I do not know why it gave me such a fright. But all of a sudden, my heart was beating so terribly fast, and I thought…”

She fell silent for a moment, then shook her head, a smile appearing as easily as morning chasing away night. “I already forgot. It’s no matter, father. I’m sorry I startled you.”

Valjean’s own heart was still racing, his own fears not so easily subdued. Again he thought of the strange warning they had received weeks ago.

“It was just a girl? Was there not a man by her side?” he asked intently.

Cosette shook her head, then reached out for his hand.

“It was just a girl, father—a poor girl, but she was alone. I’m sorry I was so startled. I should have asked the driver to halt, and we could have given her some money so that she could have bought herself a warm coat.”

“We will look out for her tomorrow,” Valjean said and squeezed Cosette’s hand gently. He answered her smile with one of his own, and that was all the reassurance Cosette needed to begin to tell him all about how good Marius was, and how much he would love Valjean, and how soon, in the spring, they would all go for a walk in the park together.

Meanwhile, Jean Valjean for once forced himself to ignore the agony those words brought him and instead kept a watch on the roads they rattled past.

But the girl was gone. There was no face from the past looming in the shadows and corners they passed.

And perhaps Cosette was right. Perhaps it had been merely a girl she had once taught to teach under the guidance of the priest of Saint-Sulpice.

Nevertheless, now that old instincts had awoken, Valjean could not help but keep an eye on every street they passed, even when at last they made it back to the quiet of the Rue Plumet.


	88. Chapter 88

“Javert. It is good to see you returned.”

M. Gisquet had seemed astonished when Javert first entered his office, but the warmth that had suffused his face afterwards seemed sincere, and caused the rise of unwonted emotion in Javert.

Was not M. Gisquet a good man? His superior—but even more so, a man who had taken a chance on Javert when not many would, given his background.

And now Javert had the temerity to doubt this man—the Prefect of Police himself, a man who at any given time surely held a hundred secrets in his mind, which the likes of Javert would never be able to grasp.

And did now he, Javert, who in truth was little better than a police spy in the company of such an august man, dare to doubt?

“Monsieur, I would have reported in person earlier,” he said humbly, “but—”

“Nonsense, Javert.” Gisquet waved away his protest. “The letter was quite sufficient. The rebellion was put down, after all, the insurgents dead. And with you taken prisoner and wounded—it is a wonder you escaped with your life. You are wholly recovered now?”

Javert’s shoulder still ached when he exerted himself too much, but he kept that fact a secret. He had rested entirely too much already.

“Yes, monsieur,” he said instead.

“Good, good.” Gisquet leafed distractedly through his papers. “Oh! You might not have heard, but I have given orders that every doctor is to report any wounded who were brought in with suspicious wounds during that rebellion. You might be of use—you will recognize the insurgents from the Rue de la Chanvrerie?”

“Of course, monsieur,” Javert said and bowed.

Then he hesitated for a moment. The insurgents might have died—save for that accursed boy, of course—but it seemed to him that the rebellion had not been defeated fully. Like an insidious seed, something had grown root inside him, and try as he might, he could not pull out the terrible sensation of doubt that had plagued him since that night.

“Is there something else, Javert?” Gisquet asked after a moment when he looked up.

“Yes, monsieur.” Javert’s mouth was dry. Everything inside him revolted at the terrible suspicion he was about to utter—and still, as much as it pained him to speak, it had to be done, or else he might go mad.

“I was told when I was freed that I was not the only agent at the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie. Is that true?”

Gisquet looked up from his notes, studying him carefully. Then he closed his book.

“It is true,” he said calmly. “Yet from what I heard, the other spy died.”

Javert swallowed painfully. “What was his name, monsieur?”

Gisquet continued to gaze at him. “I believe it was something like Le Cabuc.”

“And were you aware, monsieur,” Javert heard himself speaking as if from far away, “that this Le Cabuc once escaped from a fiacre to La Force, not long ago? And that among the underworld, he went by the name of Claquesous, the ventriloquist?”

Javert stood straight, with his hat held against his chest. To speak his suspicion had given it a dreadful reality. Still, he could not take those words back; nor would he, if given the chance. What Gisquet was to do in response did not truly matter to him; even if Javert were to be dismissed, he would bear that evenly. Yet the words had needed to be spoken, the terrible suspicion had to be given voice. It was the only way he had seen to silence the terrible specter of doubt in his head.

“I see,” Gisquet said slowly. He leaned back in his chair, still watching Javert evenly. “Yes. Yes, I believe that he went by that name.”

Javert stood as if frozen. Without, not the smallest sign of a reaction to Gisquet’s words could be seen. Within, a storm had been unleashed, a howl arising inside his mind. Once more he felt the horrifying sensation of the ground quaking beneath his feet, the pillars of society trembling under this impossible assault.

And yet, it was not the first time Javert’s mind had been besieged in such a way.

Little by little, he pulled the shards of his mind back together, like a mirror that had splintered under pressure or a vase that had fallen and cracked, but which could yet be glued together by a deft pair of hands.

In truth, Gisquet’s words did not come as a surprise. Javert had known the truth of the deception since the moment when he realized just where he had seen Le Cabuc before. He had not been able to admit it to himself, not completely—but now, with Gisquet freely admitting the truth, there was no way Javert could have continued to hold up the lie, even in his own mind.

“I see,” he echoed levelly, and then he bowed and put on his hat.

“Javert.” Gisquet’s voice stopped him from leaving.

When he met Gisquet’s eyes, he saw that Gisquet had stood, leaning forward over the desk to study him with obvious interest.

“You seem changed to me,” Gisquet said slowly. “Are you displeased that you were not told of the ruse?”

“No, monsieur,” Javert said politely. “It is not my place to question my superiors. Only—”

As soon as he had spoken the word, he fell silent. He did not know how to continue the sentence. To suspect a superior? To accuse the Prefect of Police himself of a crime? And of course, it was hardly a crime for the Prefect to employ a double agent, even if within Javert, everything rebelled against such morally abhorrent machinations.

Yet who was he, the son of criminals, the product of the galleys himself, to speak of morals to a man like M. Gisquet?

“Only it does not seem right to me to employ a man—not a thief, not a forger, not a burglar, but a murderer, monsieur, a man who has killed for his own personal gain, who was involved in the blackmail and torment of bourgeois gentlemen, even—and to have this man go free, to turn a blind eye to such terrible things, and for what? A spy among the barricades, when any upright police agent would do the same?”

“Very well spoken, Javert,” Gisquet said with a short smile. “Of course, you would not happen to know anything about the aims of the Prefecture, about the benefits of having a spy—a member of that vile gang—among one’s informants, the insight into even greater crimes one might receive. Even a bloodstained weapon might prove useful in the right hands.”

Javert stared at Gisquet. Something seemed to twist inside his chest, like a struggling creature inside him trying to claw its way to freedom. He did not speak.

After a short moment, Gisquet nodded. “Of course, there was a reason you were unaware of his identity. Now you know. It will not change anything about your loyalty and your service, of course.”

“It will not,” Javert agreed after a pause. To his surprise, he found that it was difficult to speak the words. Still, Gisquet was his superior—although even now he felt distaste rise inside him at the thought of Claquesous himself as one of the Prefect’s informants.

“I wonder…” Gisquet muttered thoughtfully as he looked at him. At last, he gestured with his hand. “Never mind. You are dismissed. Return to work when you are ready, and keep yourself available in case any reports of doctors come in.”

Javert inclined his head. Then he left his superior’s office, for the first time in his life troubled just as much by the prefect as he had been troubled by Jean Valjean’s existence before.

***

At home, Toussaint had bread and cheese and the remains of a cold chicken waiting for him. Monsieur Fauchelevent, she informed him, was still out, having gone to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire with mademoiselle to deliver another basket of lint.

After he had dined, Javert retired to their study. Despite his earlier claims of having made a full recovery, he was starting to feel a little light-headed. The beginnings of another head-ache plagued him; he returned to the kitchen for a cup of coffee before he retired to his armchair once more.

The Moniteur rested in his lap; he did not look at it. The matter of Claquesous was still ruminating in his mind; he forced his thoughts away from it.

There was no solution to be found in that matter, and he was tired, even though he had resisted all of Toussaint’s attempts to feed him more of the dreadful cod liver oil.

Javert was not given to idleness, but on this day, when yet another, smaller tremor had unsettled the foundations of his world, he found himself gazing out of the window for an hour or two.

At last, the sound of steps on the stairs announced that Valjean had returned. When the door opened, Javert raised his head almost eagerly, grateful to escape the confusing events of this day.

Valjean looked very tired. For a heartbeat, he seemed strangely aged to Javert: his head bent, his shoulders bowed beneath some heavy burden, his mouth lined with an old pain and his eyes without their usual luster.

Then Valjean saw him, and animation returned to his face. A small smile began to spread, his eyes shining with deep affection, and he seemed nearly grateful as he came forward to clasp Javert’s hand.

“You are here,” he said warmly.

“Well!” Javert exclaimed. “And where else would I be?”

Secretly, he found himself wondering at the way that Valjean seemed so changed to him when there was nothing different about the joy with which Valjean greeted him.

Perhaps it was simply the result of the past weeks of hardship. Perhaps it was just a figment of his own mind, which had been shaken by the events of the barricade as well.

Or perhaps, it was simply that it had been too long since he had given in to his hunger and felt Valjean strain beneath him…

“I spoke to the Prefect. He seemed pleased to see me recovered.”

“You will not return to your post straight away, certainly?” Valjean asked.

There was something anxious to the question. Had Valjean grown so used to having him underfoot that he was loathe to lose Javert’s presence during the day?

No. It was surely nothing more than the mention of the Prefect of Police, waking old fears that the barricade had so cruelly revived.

“I will go where I’m needed,” Javert said. This was a point he was not willing to concede. He had rested entirely too much. “But you may rest assured, it seems that M. Gisquet requires me to look through reports for the next few days. I doubt I will have occasion to even leave the Prefecture.”

Of course, if the reports of doctors coming in were to point to individuals Javert recognized from his time at the barricade, he would certainly not allow any other agent to go out and investigate the reports—but that was a detail Valjean did not need to know.

“Very well,” Valjean murmured. His brow creased a little as he tried to smile. “Toussaint will miss your presence, I am certain.”

“I will not miss the dreadful liver, day after day,” Javert said crossly. “I am quite recovered.”

“Quite recovered indeed,” Valjean echoed, and then he reached out to cover Javert’s hand with his own where it rested on the armrest. His coarse fingertips ran over Javert’s skin, and even the light touch was enough to make Javert tremble with sudden want.

“I am very glad.”

***

It was dark, the moon high up in the sky when Valjean came into Javert’s bedroom that evening. The house was quiet; Toussaint and Cosette had long since retired. The window stood open. The warm air of a July night filled the room, carried by a gentle breeze heavy with the scent of flowers. Somewhere in the distance, frogs were croaking incessantly.

Javert sat up in his bed. A candle was burning on his nightstand.

He watched as Valjean came closer, the white hair shining in the warm light of the candle. Valjean did not speak as he slipped beneath the covers, but there was no need for words.

Before Valjean’s eyes could come to rest on where a bandage covered the healing wound in his shoulder even now, Javert reached out to bury his hand in Valjean’s hair. He tightened his fingers in the silken locks, and then he leaned in to kiss him hungrily, forcefully, his tongue deep in Valjean’s mouth until Valjean trembled and moaned in surrender.

Tonight there would be no talk of recuperation. Tonight there would be no talk of rest.

Even now, with his fingers in Valjean’s hair and Valjean’s body warm and relaxed against his own, Javert could not help but think of the anguish he had felt when Valjean had failed to return to the tap-room, the echoes of gunshots making Javert flinch as the minutes passed.

Never again. Never again would he allow Valjean to make him suffer so. From now on, they would remain here, in this little home of theirs, removed from the outside world, where none but Javert’s hands would ever bare that patch of burned skin on Valjean’s breast.

Hungrily, Javert’s hands drew up beneath Valjean’s shirt. His fingers found one of the small nipples hidden among the wiry hair and he squeezed it hard, making Valjean gasp into the kiss. Then he drew back.

“Take off your shirt.”

Valjean had sunk against the headboard at Javert’s assault. Now he straightened, his fingers clenching around the hem of his nightshirt to pull it off over his head without protest.

Greedily, Javert took in the powerful body bared to him, one hand reaching out to trail up Valjean’s chest once more. For a long moment, he rested his fingers against the pale scar over Valjean’s heart, which he himself had burned into his flesh to obscure that even crueler brand of the past.

Beneath his fingers, he could feel Valjean’s heart pump blood through his veins, his heartbeat rapidly thudding against Javert’s fingertips.

“Never again, do you hear me?” he said in a low voice. “I would give up everything—but you must be mine.”

Even now, he remembered the moments when he had been forced to his knees, blood dripping from his shoulder as Valjean shielded him with his own body.

Javert clenched his fingers until his nails dug into Valjean’s skin, shuddering at the onslaught of emotion. If Enjolras had shot Valjean… Impossible. Had not Valjean sworn that he would always be his?

“I’m yours,” Valjean said, and there was something nearly ecstatic in his voice as he willingly trembled in Javert’s grip. “You know it. You know it.”

Javert groaned and pushed Valjean down onto the bed. Valjean went down eagerly, his bare body spread out for Javert. Fevered, Javert raked his hand down Valjean’s chest, his mouth finding his throat, his shoulder, the hard, raised muscles of his chest, biting at them like a wild beast to mark his claim.

Valjean gasped beneath him, every corded muscle on display as he held himself still. Beneath his legs, his shaft had stiffened; Javert ignored it as he slowly made his way downward with half-possessive, half desperate bites, drinking in the taste of Valjean’s sweat and that sweet, familiar surrender as Valjean gave himself up to him.

Javert bit at the path of grey curls that led down from Valjean’s navel, then greedily brushed his mouth along the hipbone, pressing his tongue into the indentation there to lap up the salt of his skin. Then he moved down Valjean’s thigh, biting at the warm, firm muscle before he grasped hold of his knees.

It took only the smallest amount of encouragement to make Valjean’s thighs lift and spread. And now, before him, Valjean’s genitals were on display, the shaft large and firm despite his age, jutting shamelessly upward—and beneath, the generously sized pouch.

Javert buried his face in the curls at the root of Valjean’s length, greedily inhaling the musk that already overlaid the scent of lavender soap. Hunger struck him, so hard that it seemed more painful than the moment the bullet had hit his shoulder. He groaned and brushed his mouth along Valjean’s shaft.

The thin skin was smooth and hot. He pressed his tongue to it, breathing warm air against it, then moved even lower. With one hand, he cradled Valjean’s balls, exploring their shape with his thumb once more as he pressed his mouth to the sensitive skin.

Valjean’s thighs were trembling against his shoulder. When he sucked one ball into his mouth, tonguing it demandingly, Valjean cried out.

In turn, Javert ran the pad of his thumb down the smooth skin behind his scrotum until he found the ring of tight muscle. He rubbed his thumb against the rim until the muscle relaxed against him, grazing the vulnerable testicle in his mouth with his teeth at the same time as he pressed the tip of his thumb inside.

Again a strangled cry escaped Valjean. Javert could hear him panting; every muscle and tendon in his body had tensed.

Chuckling hoarsely, Javert let his balls slip from his mouth at last.

Valjean’s prick had curved against his stomach where it quivered, heavy and dark with blood. Clear fluid had dripped from the tip. It was smeared over Valjean’s heaving stomach now, and Javert bent down to lick over the exposed crown of Valjean’s shaft, then rubbed his cheek against it until Valjean cried out desperately at the friction of his whiskers.

Javert’s hands were trembling when he finally grabbed hold of his own nightshirt. He pulled it off before he reached out for the lamp oil, hurriedly smoothing it over his own, neglected shaft.

And then, at long last, Javert spread himself out over Valjean, his hips cradled by Valjean’s strong thighs as his prick slid along the crease between Valjean’s buttocks. One thrust, and he was inside at last, both of them crying out at the same time.

Valjean’s head dropped back onto the bed, his white locks spilling across the sheets. With his eyes closed, he panted. One of his hands clenched around the sheets, the other slid around Javert’s waist, grabbing at one of his buttocks as if to pull him even deeper inside—and Javert readily obliged. With thrust after thrust, he laid claim to Jean Valjean once more, the hot, tight heat of his body clenching around him until Javert as well was panting through clenched teeth, bent over Valjean like a wolf over a lamb.

Valjean’s body was gleaming with sweat, the powerful chest heaving. Droplets had gathered in the hollow of his throat. Every time Javert pushed inside him, gasps escaped Valjean’s lips, his swollen prick still trapped between their bodies.

When Javert slid his hand between their bodies, he found Valjean’s testicles tightly drawn up. He palmed them, roughly enough to force another groan from Valjean, who arched desperately. Valjean’s thighs spread even further at his touch—and then the heavy balls pulsed in Javert’s hand, spurt after spurt of Valjean’s release spilling between their bodies as Valjean tightened around him.

With a groan, Javert allowed the sensation to take him over the edge as well. His hips snapped against Valjean’s as he spilled himself with shallow thrusts, forcing another trickle of spend from Valjean at the relentless friction.

Pulling out at the last moment, Javert watched the final jets of his release falling all over Valjean’s stomach as he held himself up on one hand, panting as he stroked himself roughly through it all. And then, finally, he collapsed against Valjean’s chest, his shoulder giving a small twinge that he ignored.

His heart was still racing. Against his chest, he could feel the answering thunder of Valjean’s heart.

He did not speak, but Valjean’s arm came to curve around his waist. And for a long moment, they rested together, safe at last, the dangers of the past seeming very far away at that moment.


	89. Chapter 89

Javert had returned to his work, and Valjean in turn found his days taken up by Cosette’s daily visit to the Marais and his work in the garden while autumn arrived and passed with the slow, relentless pace of a guard walking through the salle.

Everything was as it had been: the message on the wall had been easily explained as Pontmercy’s address; the letter dropped into his lap had so far produced no terrible calamity; Javert had used his status to inquire at the local station-house and found that there had been rumors of a planned burglary, but that nothing had come to pass.

Javert had suggested the purchase of some ferocious dog to guard their garden at night, which Valjean had denied him; he could not bear to taint the sanctity of Cosette’s gardens with such a harbinger of violence, especially now that time was running through his fingers so quickly. And once she was gone, the threat would no longer matter. He and Javert would find some other place—but there would be time to worry about that. He would let Javert choose, this time; it did not matter where Valjean went. Let Javert lead the way; Valjean would follow along and sleep where he was told and do as he was commanded.

It was, altogether, an arrangement that should not be unpleasing to Javert.

At the thought, Valjean looked up, feeling a sudden twinge of remorse as his eyes sought out Javert in the chair opposite his. It was an unkind thought, unworthy of him. Had Javert not proven, time and again in those past few tumultuous years, that what he desired to possess was Valjean’s heart and not his leash?

Javert was not reading, although the Moniteur was open on his knees. He was staring at the wall, his brow creased. Valjean felt a sudden urge to reach out and press his hand to Javert’s cheek, to feel the warmth of his skin and wipe away those worries.

“What are you thinking of?” he asked with a small smile when Javert at last became aware of his scrutiny. “You seem lost in thought.”

For a moment, Javert did not answer, scrutinizing him in turn as if Valjean’s countenance held the answer to whatever question troubled him.

“I have been thinking about a strange conundrum,” he muttered at last. Then he laughed, his lips rising into that once so fearsome tiger’s smile, which now kindled embers of warmth in Valjean’s stomach.

“Yet are you not the greatest conundrum I have ever known? The thief turned philanthropist, the bagnard turned mayor. Perhaps you’ll have a better understanding of this question than I have.”

Javert was silent for a moment. Then he continued.  
“I have been offered a new position. It does not mean an increase in pay, or in renown. No, indeed… It might mean a loss of renown, at least in my own eyes. I am ill-suited to the task I was recommended for, I think; I am loathe to even consider the thought of the company I would have to keep—and yet, proud as I am of the work I have done all my life, should I now not be just as proud to do any other task my superiors deem me suitable for?”

As Valjean watched, Javert frowned, his gaze wondering towards the window.

“And yet, suppose that such reassignment happens not because of one’s natural aptitude, or lack thereof—suppose it occurs because one’s superior wants an obstacle out of the way, a mouth silenced which has begun to speak undesired truths. Of course, the solution is easy: do not speak words which embarrass your betters, do not presume to know better than they do the work and the men they oversee. Is one who finds himself an embarrassment to a superior not obliged to resign the position, to slash that knot by removing oneself entirely? And yet…”

Javert’s jaw moved. He stared at the window, by all accounts having forgotten that it was Valjean he had addressed.

“If it is the matter of Pontmercy,” Valjean said slowly, “surely there is no way anyone can prove a connection to you—was the doctor not sworn to secrecy? Did not—”

Javert barked a laugh, then gestured angrily at the paper in Valjean’s own lap. “It’s not that. Here, the papers everywhere proclaim it: Gisquet is being openly criticized, no doctor will come forward to tell tales of wounded insurgents, and wherever you look, Gisquet’s name is spoken in anger. Even the King spoke out against his order.”

“If it is not Pontmercy, then what is it? The superior you mention is Gisquet.”

Javert’s silence was answer enough.

Valjean’s mouth suddenly went dry with dread. “Then, is it—you have not mentioned me? Has someone found out—”

“No,” Javert said immediately. “It is not that. Never fear. I would have rather resigned than endanger you.”

Again Javert laughed hoarsely, then thrust a hand into his hair to grab it roughly. “You would not understand. And how could you? You would think I had done nothing wrong. But I tell you, Jean Valjean, I accused a superior once, long ago—and several weeks ago, I did so again. I confronted that superior with my suspicions. And that superior openly admitted to something that now seems wrong to me in a way I cannot express. This is what comes of doubt. I have made myself unsuitable for the task I was made for. What good is a man like me who cannot serve society? To doubt authority is to rebel against it, if only in thought. And to rebel—should now I, Javert, rebel—”

He broke off, and Valjean, who had listened calmly, reached out to rest his hand on his arm.

“You provoked Gisquet, and the prefect had you reassigned? Is that it? Javert, if you have to move, I—I could go with you.”

Even now, something clenched around Valjean’s heart as he spoke the words, although there was also a great relief in seeing a path forward open up before him.

He would have to leave Cosette behind; he had always known that. He could not have her future joy tainted by his past. And what better way than to allow Javert to take him away from Paris?

“It’s not that,” Javert said grimly, and Valjean’s heart sank. “I will remain in Paris. You don’t need to fear. I will simply have to serve a new superior. One who is distasteful to me.”

He remained silent, and did not elaborate further even at Valjean’s questioning look. At last, Javert chuckled hoarsely.

“And yet, given what I know now, perhaps there might be no difference in truth. Serving one or the other—perhaps it is all the same. But if that is so, why serve at all? If the very pillars of society crumble before you at the lightest touch, if the ground shakes beneath your feet at every step, and all roads forward have vanished—how does one know which direction to take, where to turn? What is right when there are shadows even within the Prefecture?”

“Javert,” Valjean said hesitantly, releasing Javert’s arm to take hold of his hand again. “I don’t know what has disturbed you so. Only, whatever it was, and whatever you decide, you’ll find the right way forward. You have managed to do so for many years now.”

Javert snorted. “I wish that were true,” he said bitterly, and then he did not speak of the subject again.

***

By the time Christmas arrived, Pontmercy had recovered enough that they had been led into his bedchamber, and Valjean had watched Cosette blush and fall silent as she clutched his hand, their heads bent together as they shared an ecstatic silence.

Valjean had left from that visit with a heavy heart, while Cosette seemed to walk on clouds, a light in her eyes that would not leave, and which made her blind to the gloomy shroud that had descended upon Valjean.

That evening, when Javert returned from his day’s work, exhausted and irritated as he was often now, Valjean poured them both a glass of wine.

Javert was sitting in his armchair in their study, the fire burning brightly, the Moniteur on his lap although he seemed too tired to read.

Valjean’s own chair stood by his side, and after Valjean had seated himself once more, he took a deep breath and at last broached the painful subject.

“I want you to formally adopt Cosette.”

Javert sat up straight, the Moniteur slipping from his knees to the floor. He made no motion to pick it up.

“What did you say?” he said.

“I would like you to adopt Cosette,” Valjean repeated. It hurt to speak the words, but he had known the truth long enough; there was no sense in shying away from it now. It was the only way Cosette could be protected from what he was.

“You are her guardian, and she is now of an age where she can be adopted. You are the obvious choice. The justice of the peace will agree. You are an upstanding man, an inspector of the police, and you have provided well for her these many years you were her guardian. There will be no trouble.”

“What brought this on?” Javert demanded, leaning forward to fix Valjean with one of his ferocious stares.

Valjean calmly met his eyes. “This morning, the boy woke—and he spoke. The grandfather invited us into his bedroom. Pontmercy shall marry Cosette, the grandfather gave his agreement, even before making inquiries into my family. But you know that those will come. If you adopt her, it will be easy. You shall sign the contract, and there will be no further questions. We shall say that her parents died long ago, that there is no other surviving member of that family, they’ll receive the three hundred thousand francs and we’ll say that you were entrusted with her family’s remaining fortune until the day she is married. All will be settled. I will have no part in it. I am no more than an old friend of yours, who chaperoned Cosette on her visits while you were ill.”

“Ha,” Javert exclaimed, still gazing attentively at Valjean. “Is that so. Shall she have the entirety of your fortune? And what of you?”

Valjean lowered his eyes, uncomfortably staring at his hands, noting the marks age had left on them.

“It does not matter. I will go where you want to go. Perhaps we can find a small house somewhere. My needs are not very great, and as you said, there will be no more reason for me to play the bourgeois. I am not so old yet; my hands are strong, I can work. I was a gardener for many years—”

“Ha,” Javert said again, although there was nothing triumphant in it. “You, with your white locks… Shall you now bend your neck once more, lift trees, be addressed with coarse words like any common laborer?”

Valjean felt himself tense. “I was happy in the convent.”

“Ah, but you cannot return there,” Javert muttered. “Not if you want to keep seeing me. That is—do you want to keep seeing me?”

Now Valjean straightened, a new, different pain clenching around his heart. “How can you say such a thing? I would not—I told you I’m yours. I told you I would never run from you again.”

“So you said.” A small, unamused smile played on Javert’s lips. “But can I believe that promise? In truth, nothing seems to have changed. You have planned our future well. Cosette will be cared for, your money given away, she my daughter rather than yours, and you’ll have the two of us move into some small, quiet house somewhere?”

Silently, Valjean nodded, not understanding why Javert was suddenly so upset with him.

Javert’s jaw tightened. “There, you see? You have done it all over again. Planned our future without even once asking for my opinion, casting yourself away as if you were worthless, but a burden for those who live with you. Do you not think that I have a right to your thoughts? Why plan all of this without mentioning your fears to me even once in the past weeks?”

Javert leaned forward, his eyes still on Valjean. “When I came back to the house and found it empty—Valjean, you promised. You promised such a thing would never happen again.”

Valjean swallowed thickly, still not quite understanding Javert’s sudden distress, but aware that for some reason, he had caused Javert pain. “You do not have to do it,” he said hesitantly, “we do not have to do any of it. But I thought… Surely you must understand, Javert? You know I cannot keep playing the bourgeois—and now, with Cosette married, I won’t have to anymore. Truly, I’ll be happy to go wherever you want to go. But surely you understand that M. Gillenormand cannot know about me? You are Cosette’s guardian, and if you were to adopt here, there would be no lie in it.”

“No lie,” Javert muttered, then laughed silently. “But for the fact that we know very well who her mother was and just how she died. I agree, of course; there can be no connection to your past. But never mind. That is not why I’m upset with you. I will not have you make these decisions without me anymore. Do you hear me? This stops here. If we are to leave, if we are to go through with that plan of yours, if we are to find a small home for ourselves—then that decision will be mine as well. Do you understand?”

Valjean nodded painfully.

“I didn’t mean to take the decision away from you,” he said, his throat closing. “Only…”

He found he could not continue. Could Javert not see that he had done what he had done—running from him, time and again, renting this house, buying Cosette the clothes she desired—for _her_ , to keep her save, to give her the happiness she deserved? It had never been for himself—or rather, it had been, because her joy had been all Valjean needed.

But with her gone, he would be happy to submit to Javert’s wishes in every way.

“Wait,” Javert said after a moment. “You desire to leave her all your money? Everything you earned with your factory? Money you kept hidden from me for a decade—and I would not take it from you now, you know that, but—Valjean, this is madness. How will you live? Imagine someone recognizes you. Imagine you might have to flee once again, purchase new papers, a new home, go on a journey—”

“I won’t,” Valjean said, his mouth dry.

If he cut all ties with Cosette, it did not matter what happened to him. Even if they dragged him back in chains to Toulon—or, perhaps more likely, sent him to labor in a quarry, a slave once more, if it was not the steel of the guillotine straight away. Even those nightmares that had accompanied him for so long would no longer matter, for with him gone, Cosette would be forever safe from all harm…

Then, slowly, he became aware of Javert’s gaze on him. Javert’s eyes were dark, his brows tightly drawn together, and for all that they had argued and that Javert’s face was still the mask of a ferocious beast, whiskers bristling and brow furrowed, Valjean could not help but feel a sudden, terrible tremor shake his heart.

He was not without responsibility. Even with Cosette gone, there was another—a man who did not depend on him, that was true, but a man Valjean had given himself to, and whom he owed more consideration than he had shown so far.

“I did not mean to insult you,” Valjean said softly, his eyes suddenly burning. “Forgive me. The money—I kept it hidden not because I did not trust you, but because…”

It had been for Cosette. That one lifeline he possessed, the one certainty that had allowed him to bear everything: that given a chance, he could run at any moment and build a new life with her. With the money, he could run from the police, from blackmailers, from any connection to his past.

“But you are right, what I just said is unkind. This place is your home, too. It will be too large for us, but if you very much desire it, I’ll keep enough money so that we can keep renting it.”

“No,” Javert said, his brow still creased. “It’s too large for us alone. That is right. And if you want Cosette to have all your money, that is also your right; I want nothing of it. I never wanted it for myself, in any case, you know that. It was always you I wanted. Just you.”

“Then, perhaps… a small house with a garden somewhere?” Valjean said hopefully. “Surely Toussaint will go with Cosette; that is only right. And we don’t need someone living with us. A study, two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a woman who comes once a day to cook. And a garden, so we’ll be shielded from all eyes?”

Javert nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said, “that sounds appropriate. I will pay my share, Valjean; I’m not the man you used to know in Montreuil. I won’t have you live in that sort of drab apartment we shared then. I’m inspector of the first class; I’ve been working in Paris for many years now. I can pay my share of a small house—not in the Marais, but you will be able to take a carriage to visit her.”

Valjean nodded jerkily, not trusting himself to speak. It was kind of Javert to dangle the hope of visits before his eyes—but they both knew it would not be appropriate for a bagnard and a slave with false papers to force himself into the household of M. Gillenormand.

Still. Javert’s kindness was not unwelcome. Nor was the future Javert painted with his words. A small house, a garden where they could hide away from the world, and a bed where he could find solace in Javert’s embrace. There was a road for him to walk now, and even though it led away from Cosette, perhaps he could indeed walk it, as long as Javert was there by his side.


	90. Chapter 90

As the new year progressed, the days slowly growing longer, Pontmercy seemed to recover as well, just as slowly, but just as steadily.

The adoption had progressed as Valjean had wished it. And of course, it made perfect sense. Javert had been her friendly guardian all these years, it was only right that adoption should follow, now that Cosette was of an age to allow that step. This, more than anything else, would once and for all cut all ties between her and Valjean’s past, and put an end to any questions which might be raised by M. Gillenormand.

Valjean had not accompanied Javert when the papers had been signed. When Javert had returned, Valjean had wept. He had tried to hide it, but Javert had seen the telltale gleam of his eyes before he had turned away, wandering the garden alone.

For a while, Javert watched from his window. He did not go out to join Valjean, for he knew that he was at the heart of that great sorrow.

And yet, what difference did his name on the paper make? The girl was Valjean's, and she would always be. It was Valjean who was _father_ —and Javert was well content to keep things that way.

Still, if there was one fact he had learned in the many years that had passed since they had stolen away together from that inn in Montfermeil, it was that when it came to the girl, Valjean could not be argued with. And so he allowed Valjean his hours of quiet sorrow in the garden, and at night, at last, it was he who came to Valjean's bed.

“You know it makes no difference,” he said a little roughly, awkwardly reaching out to press the pad of his thumb to a tear. “It shall be just as it has always been. We all know that she’s yours.”

“No,” Valjean said very softly. “She is Pontmercy’s now. But you are right. It makes no difference. And now you can sign the contract, and M. Gillenormand can inquire into your background and her schooling in the convent, and there shall be no more trouble.”

Javert ran his hand down Valjean's chest, stroking the lines of muscle that were firm even now with the pad of his thumb. Then he ran his hand further down, finding Valjean soft, but not averse to hardening as he kept stroking him.

There were still tears in Valjean's eyes even when their bodies were resting in each other's embrace, slick with sweat and heaving from the exertion, but Javert did not comment on it. Instead, his softening prick still inside Valjean, he closed his arms around him and held him tightly, his lips against Valjean's nape, the salt of Valjean's skin on his tongue.

Nothing would change. They would still have this, and it would be enough. Surely Valjean would come to realize that.

***

“There's a man we’ve long suspected of fencing stolen goods in the Rue de la Poterie. Demars said he saw a certain golden watch pass hands there. I'm sure you know what that means.”

Javert clenched his teeth as he stared at the man to whom he had been assigned by Gisquet—a man who was his superior, and who made his hackles rise in a way he had not experienced since those years in Montreuil-sur-Mer, so long ago.

“Of course,” Javert said curtly. “If they sold one item there, they might sell the remaining jewels from that burglary in the Rue Saint-Sabin. If we keep a watch on that place, we'll catch them in the act.”

Vidocq gave him that half-feral grin that never failed to make Javert's ire rise—just as once, another man had done every time he had so much as looked at Javert.

But then, that man had been his slave, and Javert had found a fierce satisfaction in beating down even the tiniest hint of rebellion. Unfortunately, the man in front of him, for all that he, too, was a former galley-slave, had been set above Javert by a cruel twist of fate.

“I'm glad to see you volunteer, Javert. Maybe you'll prove yourself useful for once, eh? You'll keep a watch together with Demars and Menez.”

Javert was barely able to bite back an infuriated reply. Gisquet had indeed punished him severely, for to work beneath Vidocq, Javert the only honest person amidst a crowd of criminals and galley-slaves turned spies, was a greater humiliation than he had thought the Prefect capable of.

And yet, it was not Javert’s place to judge or to accuse his betters. Had he not lived a virtuous life, working incessantly with barely a thought for himself? Should he now put an end to such virtue by lashing out at a superior, by putting himself above the Prefect's judging?

To disagree with a superior—impossible. In such a case, surely the only possible solution was to resign.

And resign he would have, at any other time, at the mere suggestion that he, Javert, should work now with galley-slaves and common criminals hiding a thousand dirty deeds beneath their threadbare mantle of legality. Still, after the events of the barricade and the disturbing truth he had uncovered there when he had recognized in the Prefect's spy Le Cabuc the ventriloquist Claquesous, some voice had arisen inside Javert’s head, and it could not be silenced.

It would not let him resign. It would not let him rest. It demanded answers—even if he had to be humbled in such a way and work for Vidocq's band of criminals.

There had to be a reason for the Prefect's behavior. M. Gisquet would not insult him so without a reason.

Perhaps it was merely a punishment for the temerity of daring to question his actions when it came to Claquesous—and yet, the Prefect had said that there was much to be gained by employing the very men they had dedicated themselves to see behind bars. Javert was determined to see whether there was truth in it. He had to.

He did not yet know whether he could bend—but he refused to break.

“There he is,” Demars muttered to him when they were lying in wait later that day, the shop where the fence did his work in their line of sight.

A man had just appeared, strolling down the street in an old green coat—and with a large bag in his hand. As Javert and Demars watched, he entered the cobbler's small shop. Minutes passed, and no one left.

Javert reached inside his pocket, his fingers finding the reassuring weight of his gun.

“Wait,” Demars said softly. “There's more of them.”

“How do you know?” Javert demanded, fixing the man whom a cruel fate had made his accomplice with a penetrating stare.

Demars had the looks of a man in his sixties, his hair and beard grey. He had the broad shoulders and sly eyes of a galley-slave—and indeed, Javert had soon found out, his first impression of this man had not been mistaken. He was indeed one of the ex-convicts working for Vidocq, who had turned up in Paris a year ago, and who, or so Demars claimed, had been approached by old acquaintances of his who desired help with some sort of planned crime.

Instead, Demars, who seemed to possess a certain amount of intelligence, Javert had to admit, had informed on them, and when they had been arrested, it had turned out that they were behind the spree of burglaries in the Marais last year.

In the absence of honest work, the man had joined Vidocq's little gang of leashed criminals—and now Javert found himself spending his days among such illustrious company, his own leash handed over by Gisquet himself.

Furious embarrassment rose up in Javert once more; just as viciously, he beat it down. There was no time for his qualms. He had not handed in his resignation to Gisquet, which meant that he would do his job, and do it well, until the day it was impossible to bear the humiliation of this assignment.

Perhaps, in the end, he would break rather than bend—but that day had not yet arrived, and he felt a wave of dangerous excitement rush through him, driving out even the sour humiliation in his stomach, as he gripped his pistol tightly.

Two men in workingmen's clothes had just approached the shop.

“I didn't know,” Demars said, a satisfied smile on his face. “But that business in the Rue Saint-Sabin wasn't a job for one. And that cobbler's been spending an awful lot of money on his mistress lately. Set her up in her own house. He wants more money. And not just from fencing stolen jewelry, I believe. That cobbler’s pulling the strings. And now, they're all in there together. Perhaps planning a new job, to keep his mistress in silks.”

Javert clenched his jaw, watching as the two men entered the shop as if they had no care in the world, one of them whistling a song.

“And how do you know all that? Friends of yours?” he said, his lips curling as he stared at the man by his side—a criminal, a former galley-slave, a man who had chosen the easy path of crime where Javert himself had chosen the thorny path of virtue, and who yet dared to think himself Javert's equal!

Demars gave him a small smile and raised one of his shoulders in an easy shrug. “Why does that displease you, inspector? Isn't that why we're all here?”

Javert felt himself bristling once more, although there was nothing he could say to it. It was true that Gisquet had assigned him to Vidocq's little menagerie—to keep an eye on proceedings, Gisquet had claimed, but it had been very obvious that this entire distasteful thing was designed as some sort of test.

How exactly he was to be tested, Javert could not yet say. And perhaps he was doing Gisquet a disservice. Perhaps Gisquet did not desire him to bend, but was rather hoping that Javert would prove his upright nature and resign, thus reliving Gisquet of the headache of a subordinate who had dared to question his use of Le Cabuc.

Nevertheless, although Javert was not so certain that he might not break, he had not yet reached that point. And right now, there was a criminal gang in need of an arrest.

***

“To the Gillenormands? I?” Javert repeated, staring at Valjean in sudden horror. “Surely there’s no need for that. You go and visit. I will—”

“You have adopted her,” Valjean reminded him, his voice tight for a moment before he continued. “They have been told that I am but a friend of yours, that you were guardian and now, father by adoption; it is you who must agree to the marriage, and you who will sign the contract. I cannot always make excuses for you, Javert. You must visit; they desire to know you.”

“Ha, that is very good,” Javert said, although he obliged Valjean by pulling on his coat. “To know me, Javert! There’s nothing to know; I’ll sign that contract, but there’s nothing else—”

“They know she was raised in the convent,” Valjean interjected calmly. “They have already made inquiries; that is taken care of. The money is taken care of, too.” He hesitated a moment. “I kept some of the money, as I promised. I won’t be a burden to you. It will be enough to rent a quiet place somewhere.”

“Good,” Javert said fiercely. “And neither will I be a burden to you. Once this entire thing is taken care of, there will be quiet. And who knows—maybe you won’t force me to lie again.”

He laughed voicelessly, his stomach churning with distaste at what he was about to embark on. Still, to tell the truth was impossible. He would rather lie than see Valjean back in chains. 

Perhaps it was true. Perhaps he could bend.

Not for Gisquet—but for Valjean. One last time. One final lie, and then he and Valjean would live somewhere where Valjean would be safe from discovery, and the old lie would be forgotten.

Javert bared his teeth. “Let’s get this over with then. I’m sick just thinking about it—me, to invade a bourgeois’ family, to place myself on a par with them, to tell such lies when you and I both know very well that Cosette—but enough of that.”

Valjean’s eyes had grown cold at his final sentence, and Javert reined himself in before he could speak the truth: that her mother had been a prostitute; that M. Gillenormand would take back his agreement the second they spoke that truth.

And yet, there was a part of him that still could not find anything wrong in Cosette marrying that foolish boy she had set her heart on. Even now, there seemed to him no connection between the starved waif they had taken from that inn, and the bourgeois girl brought up in a convent who called Valjean _father_.

What a puzzling thing it was, these obstacles which life kept throwing in his way: first, the convict turned philanthropist, then, the child who came from that same background Javert had climbed out of, and who was yet no different to any young bourgeois woman he might encounter in a park. There was no deception—neither in her nor in Valjean. And that was perhaps the strangest thing of all.

***

The house was much like Javert remembered it, from that night long ago, although Cosette made her way up the stairs with such a smile on her face that for a moment, it was difficult to recall the darkness of that night, and his own exhaustion and fear.

This time, their arrival caused no shock or exclamations of horror; instead, they were greeted with respect and led into the room of the boy, who was seated in an armchair.

As he saw Cosette enter, his face lit up. When Javert entered behind her, the boy turned as pale as a ghost, his mouth half open as he stared at Javert as if he were an evil spirit come to haunt him.

Javert, in turn, stared with the same shock the boy was exhibiting.

“It is you!” they said at the same time.

“Then it was real,” Marius said, looking from Javert to Valjean as though a horde of devils had appeared to drag him to hell. “Then it was truly you at the barricade, M. Fauchelevent—but did you not tell me you don't know the Rue de la Chanvrerie?”

Valjean was silent, although Javert could see how he had tensed.

“You're that—you're the lawyer,” Javert said. “The lawyer of the Gorbeau tenement.”

“And you're the inspector of the Rue Pontoise.” Marius’ face was still pale. “And the spy at the barricade. But how are you—”

How strange an encounter this was. He had not recognized the boy under the layers of grime and blood when he had helped Valjean to carry him from the sewer. And Pontmercy had not been a part of the group of insurgents with whom Javert had marched to the Rue Saint-Denis, nor had he been among the men who had tied Javert once his cover was blown.

“I am he,” Javert said, suppressing the urge to glare at Valjean. Could not Valjean have warned him? But then, Valjean had not known the identity of the man who had come to warn him about the trap in the Gorbeau house...

“Well. It seems we are all acquainted with each other. That will make the proceedings easier, of course.” Awkwardly, Javert shifted his shoulders. Could not Valjean have prepared Marius, at least, for this meeting? “You are to marry Cosette, my daughter by adoption. And I come to give my consent—”

“Your daughter,” Marius said again, his eyes widening even more. Then he flushed. “Forgive me, monsieur. M. Fauchelevent told me that he is but a friend of yours—but for you to be that guardian!”

Javert allowed a smile to play on his lips. For all that he had loathed the thought of coming into a bourgeois’ house and speaking lies, now that he had been presented with this unexpected meeting, he found that the encounter was less dire than he had expected.

“You need not fear. Despite Gisquet's orders, I shall not give away your secret.” 

At that exact moment, the door opened with so much vigor that it hit the wall, and in spilled the breathless porter who had let them in minutes ago.

“The deuce,” the man cried, “monsieur, you must forgive me, but it just came to me! It is he! That gentleman over there—it is he who came that night, the police-agent who carried you from the barricade!”


	91. Chapter 91

Valjean stared from Pontmercy to the porter and back again, an old terror rising within him once more.

For a moment, he thought himself trapped. If Javert were to tell the story of how he had rescued Pontmercy from the barricade, might not the boy ask further questions, and might not those lead to the dark past Valjean had thought left behind?

Then the boy got out of his armchair, walking slowly and with obvious effort, but not stopping until he was able to clasp Javert's hand.

"You! For you to be my savior—you who are her father; you who came to save—"

Here he fell silent, his gaze turning towards Valjean, and a flush appeared on his pale cheeks. "But you must forgive me, M. Fauchelevent. For so long, I assumed that it was you who was Cosette's father—"

"It's of no importance," Javert said curtly. "And I pray you will never mention my part in this rescue. M. Gisquet would not be happy to hear that I have assisted in such an endeavor."

"Assisted?" Pontmercy now asked, and Valjean, who had taken a step back towards a corner where, he hoped, he might escape further attention, found his steps halted when Javert's gaze came to rest on him.

"He has not told you then?" Javert said, baring his teeth. "Yes, I assumed he might not have. You saw him at the barricade indeed; it was he who tried to free me."

"I remember," Marius said, and now his gaze grew thoughtful. He motioned for the porter to leave them.

Cosette was still with M. Gillenormand, who had gifted her a new robe of silk, and Valjean felt grateful that she, at least, was not present for this unfortunate revelation.

"Yes, I remember now," Marius said softly. "There is so much I have forgotten, and so much that is little more than a blur. They are dead, all of them; no one will talk to me of those events, and there were days I doubted my own memory of what had come to pass, half-certain that those days in June were little more than a fever dream. But you were there, M. Fauchelevent, and so were you. And I remember that you..."

He looked at Valjean and fell silent. A moment later, a flush reddened his cheeks.

"I was told that you held the spy in great affection—no offense, M. Javert—and that Enjolras granted you his life, because you pleaded for it."

Now it was Valjean who felt his cheeks heat with mortification. He could not bear to meet Pontmercy's eyes; in truth, he wished he had never come. Why had he come? Javert could have come on his own; Valjean had already given her up; it would not have mattered, in any case, for it was Javert alone who had the right to agree to the marriage.

To have Pontmercy know that Valjean had carried him from the barricade was bad; to have Pontmercy know that he was but a slave had once been his greatest terror. But now, with Pontmercy staring at him from wide eyes, a terrible knowledge in his eyes, Valjean felt an even deeper shame rise inside him.

Was it possible that Pontmercy knew? What tales had spread from that moment when he had fallen to his knees to shield Javert with his own body from Enjolras' gun? Did Pontmercy know that Valjean was Javert's—not in the eyes of the law, but within his own heart?

"We are old friends," Javert said stiffly, his whiskers bristling. There was something furious and cold in his voice, which that had made many a thief quaver. Now it struck Pontmercy, who started and turned to face Javert, his face still red.

"You must forgive me, monsieur," he said and bowed. "I do not mean—that is, I did not wish to—"

"Yes, yes," Javert muttered impatiently, his own embarrassment more than obvious in the way his hand rose to tug on his whiskers. "Let's not talk of that night. I was there to do my duty, no matter what you might think of that; M. Fauchelevent was there to rescue you; and Fate had it that all three of us escaped with our lives that night, as impossible as it might seem.”

Marius shook his head slowly, his eyes returning to Valjean.

"You were there," he said softly. "You saw it all. And you—you saved me?"

After a moment, he swayed a little, then reached out for his chair once more and slowly sat down. "But M. Fauchelevent, I must apologize—I have been very rude to you a week ago, when it seemed to me that you were disapproving of my attempts to find my savior. To think that it was you all along—to think it was you I offended! But why have you not told me?"

Instead of his former pallor, his cheeks had flushed, his eyes a feverish black as he looked at Valjean with the overwhelmed awe of a man who had beheld the angel Gabriel himself descend from the Heavens and enter his bedroom.

"It was of no importance," Valjean said at last, looking around in despair for some diversion that might help him escape the situation. "Let us not dwell on these things. I'm a man of no importance; I came only to accompany an old friend, and soon you shall see me no more, M. Pontmercy. Surely everything is in order now, and—"

"See you no more?" Pontmercy cried out, the feverish gleam in his eyes intensifying as he jumped out of his chair once more, coming towards Valjean with outstretched arms. "How can you believe such a thing? You—my savior!"

He grasped hold of Valjean's arms, and Valjean, who all this time had resented the man who had taken Cosette from him, was embarrassed to see tears in his eyes.

"And Cosette calls you father! No, you shall not leave, monsieur, not until we've thanked you a thousand times for what you've done. You are dear to my dearest Cosette; yes, I know she loves you almost like a father, and although M. Javert shall be father to both of us, you must allow me to show my gratitude. To think that you have told neither Cosette nor myself, and that when Cosette already adores you—"

Helplessly, Valjean looked at Javert, who refused to offer any help to diffuse the situation. At the word _father_ , a grimace had appeared on Javert's face; now, he seemed perfectly content to watch Pontmercy accost Valjean, without offering any of the help he had promised.

Valjean was supposed to melt back into the shadows from which he had come. Was that not why Javert had adopted Cosette? To destroy any chance that someone might ever try to look closer into the years she had spent in Valjean's care?

Yet now that this plan had been turned upside down by Javert's meddling and Pontmercy's insistence, Valjean felt some of the old fear rise up in him.

"I have done nothing of importance," he said, slowly pushing Pontmercy away. "Monsieur, please. Any other man would have done the same; no thanks are necessary. In any case, I did not want to intrude on the joy of matrimony; the fact remains that I am but a distant friend, that you are to marry Cosette, that M. Javert is her adoptive father, that all that is to be said and done shall happen between you and M. Javert, and that you shall not see much of me, for I am an old man and not much given to leaving my house."

He gave Pontmercy a small smile, retreating one step, then another.

Pontmercy was silent—and so was Javert.

For a moment, hope blossomed in Valjean's heart. Perhaps he would be allowed to quietly escape the room...

Then, Pontmercy and Javert took a determined step towards him at the same time, only to stop and give each other a surprised glance.

At the same moment, the door flew open once more, and in danced Gillenormand despite his ninety years of age, his face red with joy as he fell down on Javert with exclamations of joy and gratitude. Javert, in turn, knew not how to defend himself from such an assault by the old bourgeois, and Cosette, who had rushed in after him with rustling skirts, immediately came to Pontmercy's side to wind her arms around his.

"Is it true then?" she cried out, laughing. "It was M. Javert? Oh, to think that you have tried to keep us all in the dark! How terrible that is! But now you must let us thank you!"

Among this chaos of happy exclamations raining down on Javert from all sides, Valjean slipped out unnoticed, his heart pounding in his chest.

Cosette was Javert's now; let him deal with the outfall. Perhaps, if God was kind, Pontmercy would soon forget about Javert's revelation; in any case, Valjean had not planned on spending much time in his company, now that Javert had recovered. Whatever Pontmercy had heard about him today would soon be forgotten. In any case, there was the wedding to think about, preparations to be made, and Javert, Valjean thought, would surely not allow them to make too much of a fuss over the events of that one night in June.

In a week or two, all attention would have returned to the guests who were to be invited, the gown the bride ought to wear, the food that was to be served, and Valjean would be no more than an unimportant friend of Javert's while marital bliss would sweep away all of Pontmercy's questions.

Valjean's steps slowed as he made his way through the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.

Javert would be cross with him for abandoning him in that company; yet Javert was Cosette's father at least on paper, and thus such visits were his duty, not Valjean's. Valjean did not think that Javert would upset the old bourgeois; Javert, who had always unfailingly done his duty, would make it through this event as well, and then, in an hour or two, he would return home in a carriage with Cosette.

And then, Valjean had no doubt, Javert would voice his displeasure. But that was well. It had not been kind to abandon Javert there; still, there had been no other way. Valjean had not thought that the porter might recognize Javert after all this time—it had been very dark then, Javert had worn his hat pulled deep into his face, and the porter had barely had eyes for anything but the blood-stained figure of Pontmercy they had delivered.

Perhaps Valjean should have expected such a revelation. In any case, now that it had come, it was more apparent than ever that he could have no further part in Cosette's life. She could not keep calling him father; it might invite unwanted questions.

That same night, he pressed himself against Javert in apology, who had been quietly furious when he returned, for he had been forced to make excuses for Valjean's sudden absence.

"In any case," Valjean said softly after a long silence, his hand pressed to Javert's shoulder, "it's best this way. I have no place in that house. You know that. You know why."

Javert remained silent, although beneath Valjean’s hand, Javert's body was as taut as a bow.

"They will soon forget about me altogether," Valjean murmured. "That is as it should be. And then, you and I can live quietly, and no one will ever know who I am."

Javert remained silent for what felt like an eternity. At last, he turned abruptly, his eyes blazing at Valjean from beneath his heavy brows. His eyes were dark with anger—or perhaps it was simply hurt.

Yet what reason had Javert to feel hurt? Was it not Valjean who had been forced to deal the lethal blow to himself, to push that dagger deep into his own heart and cut the bond that bound him to Cosette? Surely, in a day or two, Javert’s anger would pass. Yet Valjean's own sorrow would remain.

"That is all very well," Javert said, gritting his teeth as his hands grabbed Valjean’s shoulders like pincers.

Suddenly, Valjean found himself pushed to his back, Javert rolling atop him to press him into the bed while glaring down at him.

"Yes, that is all very well. But then, it’s always that way, isn't it? You make these decisions—you come up with plan after plan, an escape route for every room, a contingency for every occurrence. And yet, not once have you thought about me!"

"That is not true!" Valjean found himself protesting breathlessly. "You are her father now by adoption. It was your duty to meet Pontmercy's family, to sign the marriage contract. You have always been a man aware of your duties! I’m sorry I left you there—but these things have to happen, and you know it as well. It is what custom demands."

"Bah," Javert said, and if anything, his glower intensified. "What do I care about Pontmercy or his grandfather? I will do my duty. Haven't I always done my duty? But you. You have planned it all, yet you could not tell me in advance? Am I truly not worth your consideration? So your plan was to keep Pontmercy in the dark about your involvement? Well, then why not tell me that this was what you wanted?"

Valjean swallowed, helplessly staring up into Javert's eyes. "I did not think—there would have been no reason," he said nervously. "How was I to know that the porter would recognize you? It was bad luck, no more. I did what I had to do—you know yourself that there can be no connection to Jean Valjean. That house, that family has no place for a man from the galleys. You know it is so!"

"Even so!" Javert said, still enraged. "Why not tell me these things before?"

Valjean looked at Javert, feeling strangely helpless. Could Javert not see the situation he was in? Valjean had given Cosette up of his own, free will. It was he who had demanded the adoption of Javert. Was that sacrifice alone not enough to tell Javert everything there was to be known?

After a moment, Javert angrily rolled to his side again.

"If you desire to share a house with me, once this is done," he said curtly, "you will learn honesty, Jean Valjean. God knows the girl is better at that than you are, for all that she had a suitor she kept a secret from us."

Out of his depth, his chest aching with a strange hurt, Valjean looked at the tense line of Javert's shoulders. After a moment, he pressed his hand to it again; Javert did not react.

After a minute, Valjean let his hand sink down. The ache in his heart had not abated. His chest felt strangely tight as he turned around himself.

That night, it was hard to find sleep.

***

It was the 16th of February in the year 1833 when the wedding procession made its way down the boulevard, for the Rue Saint-Louis had been barred off.

It was Shrove Tuesday; the carriage could only roll slowly, for there were revelers in their masks everywhere, filling the streets with merriment and laughter.

Valjean had not wanted to come, but Javert would not allow him to find an excuse. There would have been no excuse Cosette would have accepted, in any case, although Valjean had succeeded in gently arguing that it was of course Javert who would ride in the carriage with the bride, for he was her father and would sign the contract.

Valjean, for his part, shared a carriage with a captain of lancers from Chartres, a cousin of Pontmercy. The man's name was Théodule, and he was given to boisterous laughter and talk that did not need much encouragement from Valjean. It suited him well.

Cosette had looked beautiful in her veil of English point, petticoats of taffeta, and robe of Binche guipure. She had turned in it, laughing with joy as she admired herself in the mirror that morning, and then embraced him when she saw him watching her.

It might have been their final embrace, so painful was the blade that pierced Valjean's heart at that innocent gesture. It was nearly done now; only the feast remained.

***

"Where do you think you're going?"

Valjean halted, his cheeks flushing as he found himself so abruptly disturbed in his thoughts.

He had thought Javert well-distracted by the conversation forced upon him by Gillenormand and his guests; yet it seemed that Javert, no doubt with long experience as a spy among less distinguished personage and less elaborate feasts, had immediately seen through Valjean's attempts to extricate himself from the gathering at the earliest opportunity.

Now, in a small antechamber, Valjean found himself pressed against the wall, Javert not quite close enough to touch, but close enough to keep him from moving.

Valjean swallowed. "It is late. I am tired. I simply thought—"

"Ha," Javert said with deep satisfaction. "You will not retire without me. No indeed; am I to make excuses again? What shall I say? Cosette would not believe me. No; I'm as ill at ease here as you are. Neither of us belongs in this place. But you shall suffer this with me, because it was you who brought me to this place. And then, at last, when we have suffered enough, we shall leave together, and if God is merciful, perhaps we won't need to return."

After a moment, Valjean inclined his head in submission, thinking with guilt of Javert's anger a few weeks ago.

"I was not going to lie to you," he said softly, ruefully realizing that he would have gladly taken the first opportunity to escape from the banquet. "I was hoping to find a quieter place."

Javert stared at him, his eyes suspicious beneath furrowed brows. At last, he relented. "We may take a walk in the garden. I will excuse us—but you will not leave, and in half an hour, we shall return and end this wedding the way custom demands, with the bride's father at the table, and not sneaking out like a thief in the night."

Valjean swallowed, then nodded in acquiescence. "I will wait for you in the garden," he said, forcing himself to smile. "I really do need the air."

After another distrustful look from those narrowed eyes—and Javert was right to distrust him, Valjean thought contritely, for had he not fully intended to find a way to escape the house?—Javert left him, returning into the room from which the sounds of music and merriment echoed forth.

Slowly, Valjean turned away from the sounds of gaiety, making his way towards the garden instead.

It was early in the year. The roses were not yet in bloom. But there was an abundance of daffodils, hyacinths and Persian buttercups, the blossoms bright against the green grass that stretched all the way to the back of the garden, where a wall of grey stones rose.

Javert had not yet made it back to his side, and so Valjean went forward on his own, driven by an urge he could not explain, only knowing that the sounds that spilled forth from the balcony above made his heart clench in his chest and his throat tighten, and he did not want Javert to find him weeping.

His eyes skimmed past bushes and budding flowers, barely taking in the splendor of those first messengers of spring as on the balcony above, a door was flung open, laughter spilling out, and amidst it the familiar sounds of Cosette and Pontmercy.

Hastily, Valjean took several steps forward until he was shielded from view by an old cherry tree. Its buds had not yet unfurled, but in the shadows beyond, there was another cluster of daffodils.  
Valjean looked at the flowers without truly seeing them, his chest still strangely tight, as though someone was tightening chains of steel around him once more.

And then, all of a sudden, there was a movement.

For the fraction of a heartbeat, he saw a face peer at him through the bushes by the wall. It was a girl’s face, the eyes wide, the rest of her hidden behind leaves and twigs.

A shock went through Valjean. Something about those eyes seemed familiar.

Before he could even call out, the leaves rustled and she was gone. A second later, something small and agile scurried up the wall to his left and dropped into the street beyond.

Then everything was silent once more, as if the event had never come to pass.


	92. Chapter 92

Only five days after the wedding had taken place, Javert found himself once more involved in a stakeout together with Demars.

The broad-shouldered, shrewd ex-convict had found them a table in a shadowed corner, where so far, they had been left alone with their bottle of wine. In any case, the plan was not to be approached, nor to apprehend a thief or murderer—for that, or so Javert had been told, would give away the fact that Demars was now a police spy.

Today, the plan was simply to listen, since for some reason Demars seemed convinced that the establishment would yield rumors as to the whereabouts of that scourge of Paris’ gutters, Patron-Minette. Javert, who was intimately acquainted with these men after the events of the Gorbeau hovel, had come in disguise, looking like any mendicant down on his luck, his hat shading his eyes and his chin thrust into his cravat so that little of him could be seen besides his threadbare coat.

Three hours passed with little useful overheard. They had another bottle of wine and pretended to while away the time with dominoes. Javert, who had long prided himself on his patience and his delight in those long moments before the cat's paw came down to entrap the mouse in its claws, found his thoughts returning to the bed that awaited him when he came home, the sheets warm from Valjean’s body, the way he would, perhaps, wake Valjean and feel that soft mouth against his skin, exhaling warm air in contentment.

It was then, when his attention had begun to wander, that all of a sudden he heard a strangely familiar voice through the din of the wine-shop.

"I tell you," someone whispered, not far away. "We left that business in the Rue Plumet unfinished, but there's riches to be had there. The old cove sleeps on a mattress of banknotes, and what’s more, I sent my daughter to follow him when I spied him in a carriage. The man’s daughter married—the very one who came to see us that day in the Gorbeau house."

"Eh, what of it?" a second voice, darker and deeper, replied. "Have you forgotten what happened that day? I could barely make my own escape, and he had all of you behind bars before the hour was through."

"Yes, yes," Thénardier said impatiently—for that was who had spoken, Javert had realized with sudden shock. "Never mind that little dance. I tell you, the man’s rich, and his money’s mine. Tomorrow night, come to the Rue Plumet—"

"What about your brat? She sent us packing before!"

"Éponine? She's dead," Thénardier said with derision, "or run off, which is all the same to me. Azelma's been spying on the man for me."

"I don't care," the other voice growled. "Inn-keeper, see to your own business. It’s no longer any business of mine. There's too much of the vaudeville to your plans—"

"And are you shy now? Is Claquesous frightened of the audience?" Thénardier gave a harsh laugh. Then there was the scrape of chairs, and Thénardier’s voice grew wheedling. "Just you and two others, no more. Think of how large the share will be."

Demars inclined his head slightly—a question: _Shall we act?_

Javert waited a second, but it seemed the argument was to be taken to a different place, for now the second chair scraped across the floor.

Javert briefly shook his head, but gave Demars the secret sign to follow and observe.

For ten minutes, Javert remained in his corner, shocked to his core as he stared at the dominoes before him without seeing them.

They had spoken about Valjean, there was no doubt. And worse, they had mentioned the Rue Plumet. The Rue Plumet—where they yet lived, until a more appropriate home was found.

Javert swallowed. It seemed that Jean Valjean had been right after all to flee from that place. It had been neither an owl nor a thief Valjean had fled from.

It had been Thénardier himself.

***

It was dark when Javert returned home. The Rue Plumet was quiet; no carriages clattered across cobblestone, no officers from the garrison rode through the street.

The moon was waning; three days ago, there had been a full moon. The streetlight closest to their gate gave off enough light, together with the cold light of the moon, that he saw that something was wrong the second he reached out for the handle.

The gate was not locked. It stood slightly ajar.

At any other time, he might have assumed that Valjean had forgotten to close and lock the gate when he retired, although such an event was highly unlikely, given Valjean's fear of his past.

Now, with the sound of Thénardier's voice still echoing in his mind, Javert found himself filled with a sudden horror. Had Thénardier acted so fast? Would Javert return home to find that Valjean had been attacked, had been kidnapped for blackmail, perhaps—or worse, was dead?

Javert’s mouth was dry. There was a sour taste on his tongue, his mind replaying that moment at the barricade when Enjolras had pointed his gun at Valjean’s chest.

This time, Javert had not been there. This time, he might be too late...

His hands moved mechanically, opening the gate without making a sound. Like a shadow, he made his way in, melting into the darkness beneath the trees to his left instead of following the small path to their house.

The trees blocked his view of the windows. He craned his head. Was the house silent and empty? Would he return to an abandoned bedchamber once more, Valjean taken from him, nothing left but the scent of his hair on his pillow? Or was there not a light shining from a window to show that Valjean was awaiting him, healthy and unharmed, and with no knowledge of the horror that might have come to pass tonight...?

"A word with you, monsieur," a voice said from the darkness.

Javert's pistol was out before he had even whirled around—but there was no one there.

"Show yourself," he hissed. "I know who you are, Thénardier. And so does the Prefect of Police."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, most unexpected, there was laughter. A heartbeat later, someone stepped out of the shadows.

The figure was not what Javert had expected—it was the form of someone slender and small, not much taller than a child.

"The prefect doesn't care about me," the shadow said, and then a cloud shifted and a ray of moonlight caught her face.

It was not Thénardier. Nor was it a member of his band of thieves.

It was a girl who had come, Javert now saw. A girl in tattered rags, with wooden shoes and the emaciated frame of one who did not eat every day.

Regardless, he kept his pistol aimed at her.

"What's the meaning of this?" he demanded. "If you've come to beg—"

She kept staring at him. There was a strange anger in her narrow eyes. She did not even seem to notice the gun in his hand.

"I know you," he said a moment later, taking in the lines of her gaunt face. "You were sent to the Madelonettes. You are one of Thénardier's brats."

"You put me in the jug before," the girl said, and then drew her thin arms around her body, shivering. "I didn't much like it there. My mother died in Saint Lazare, you know. And Éponine's gone, too."

"She's dead," Javert said. He remembered her body, resting on the street next to the barricade in the Rue Mondétour. What had Thénardier’s daughter sought in such a place? He had never found out.

"I know." Azelma nodded quietly to herself. “I knew when she didn't return or send word. Not that I'd have blamed her for running away. But where can someone like us run? It's hard to run when you don't get to eat. And I know what it's like to eat, monsieur. When I was a child, there was food. We played and laughed. I remember that."

"So?" Javert bared his teeth. "You've come to beg for food? Like a thief in the night? And from _me_?"

"No." Azelma met his eyes with a smile on her lips. "I know who you are. And I know who you work for. And the man who lives here—I've seen the old cove in the garden in the Marais. He was there at that wedding with you. My father has seen him, too."

"So he sent you to blackmail _me_ , an inspector of the police?" Javert laughed hoarsely.

"No," Azelma then said, and for the first time, there was a fierce fury in her voice. "You're working for Vidocq. I know that. And I can help you. If you'll help me."

***

Two day later, Valjean and Javert found themselves standing in Pontmercy’s study, Jean Valjean as pale as a ghost, Javert filled with a grim determination.

“I don’t understand,” Pontmercy said, rising from his chair. “Blackmail? But who is to be the victim—you, M. Fauchelevent?”

“No,” Javert said in satisfaction. “It is to be you, Monsieur le Baron.”

“ _I_? But what for?”

“It’s because of me,” Valjean said quietly, stepping forward.

His face was for a moment, he closed his eyes, as if he could not bear to face what had to be done. Even now, Javert could not help but watch with admiration how those broad shoulders tensed, the strong body which had lifted carts and trees and once stopped an ox now shouldering even this weight: truth, the heaviest burden of them all.

“You, M. Fauchelevent?” Pontmercy stared at him with open surprise. Then he frowned. “Is it because of your activities in the Rue de la Chanvrerie? But you saved Inspector Javert.” Then he fell silent, his eyes widening as he flushed.

“Ah,” Pontmercy said at last, visibly grasping for words. “Is it—forgive me, monsieur—is it because of your regard for Inspector Javert? Your… affection for him?”

Javert felt himself flush with horror at having such intimate details pulled out into the open—he would rather have come before Pontmercy in his shirtsleeves than to hear him utter such words.

“My affections are of no matter,” he said through clenched teeth.

“But what is it then? M. Fauchelevent, you are a good man; Cosette adores you as if you were her father; my grandfather heard nothing but praise for you when he inquired at the convent.”

“There is no M. Fauchelevent,” Valjean said, deathly pale. “There is only Jean Valjean, a galley-slave. Nineteen years in the bagne of Toulon, Monsieur le Baron. You understand.”

“No. No, I don’t understand at all.” Pontmercy shook his head, staring at Valjean in disbelief.

“He speaks the truth. Show him,” Javert ordered.

Flushing, Valjean raised a trembling hand to untie his cravat. Then he unbuttoned his coat, and, grasping his shirt, he pulled it open so that Pontmercy could see the patch of pale, scarred skin above his heart.

“Once, there was a brand there,” Javert said, staring straight at Pontmercy. “It was a _J_. Do you know what that _J_ stood for? It stood for Javert. I bought this man, a slave purchased from the state.”

Pontmercy took a step backwards, staring at him in horror.

“It is a long story, and you’ll be told it in full today,” Javert continued, relentless in the face of Pontmercy’s disgust. “But what matters is that very soon, a man will come who will claim to have information to sell you. Information about a terrible past, information that, if it came to light, would forever taint the name of your family.”

“And so you come to inform me first, and to presumably arrest this man if he shows his face,” Marius concluded. When Javert nodded, he demanded, “Who is this man? How does he know about me?”

“The man’s name is Thénardier. You will remember, I have no doubt, the incident in the Gorbeau tenement,” Javert said dryly.

“Thénardier!” Pontmercy exclaimed, as dazed as if Javert had named the Prefect of Police or Louis Philippe himself.

“The very man.”

“You will not arrest him,” Pontmercy said, ghostly pale. “I won’t allow it.”

Now it was Javert who took a step back, shocked. “What!” he exclaimed. “The man, the very man, who kidnapped Valjean and sought to blackmail him? And that is not all; Thénardier is wanted for murder, monsieur, for—”

“Be that as it may,” Marius said, having collected himself, “I cannot let you arrest that man. Not here, not in my own house, at least.”

“A criminal! A murderer!” Javert gritted his teeth as he stared at Pontmercy. “Good God, what is wrong with you? If you are that scared of the information he’s trying to sell—”

“It’s not that.” Slowly, Marius returned to his chair to sit down in despair. “This Thénardier—he once saved the life of a colonel on the battlefield of Waterloo. That man was Colonel Pontmercy, my father. All that is left to me of him is a letter in which he bids me to find this Thénardier, and to repay him for saving my father’s life. This is a debt I have carried with me for a long time. That is why I could not shoot in the Gorbeau house, you see. Even if he were a murderer—how can it be my hand to deliver him to death, when it was by his hand that my father lived?”

“What nonsense,” Javert said in agitation. “Even a villain like Thénardier can do a good deed by accident once. It has no meaning; the man has done a thousand foul deeds, and will do a thousand more if he isn’t stopped.”

“I cannot,” Pontmercy said again, shaking his head. “You don’t understand…”

“Then let us feel pity for that poor family,” Valjean interjected. “There’s nothing that needs to be done. You know the truth now; there’s nothing he can sell you. Simply send the man away. I do not think he knows that Javert bought me as a slave; he knew me simply as the ex-convict Jean Valjean. But Jean Valjean is dead. Papers were filed. I am Fauchelevent. Even if Thénardier claims to recognize him, who would believe him? In either case, I would not embarrass you, monsieur. I will move away with Javert. You must forgive me: from Cosette’s dowry, I took five thousand francs, hoping to support myself as I spend my remaining years quietly with Javert. If Thénardier insists, I will pay him off myself with those five thousand. Otherwise, I shall vanish from your and Cosette’s life. It was what I had planned to do; you must believe me. I knew that one day my past might harm her. There can be no connection between myself and you, monsieur, you see that now.”

“What?” Pontmercy asked in shock. “Vanish? Cosette calls you _father_ ; what would she think? And you my savior, too!”

“And a convict,” Valjean said quietly. “And a slave. Worse: a slave with forged papers. Once, we saw the chaingang pass, monsieur. It frightened her to look upon those creatures—men no better than wild beasts. You will agree that this is not a thing she can know.”

“No,” Pontmercy said, looking dazed as he stared from Valjean to Javert and back again. “Forgive me. That is a lot to contemplate. But you are right; she cannot be told of such things. Inspector Javert, I will think of what you have said. I will send you my answer this evening. But for now, you must let me think.”

***

“Well?” Azelma demanded, the thin face thrust towards Javert with anxious determination.

She had accosted him on the way home, like a ghostly apparition melting out of the shadows as he turned a corner, after he had left Demars with their reports.

Javert, who had no taste for surprise or the vaudeville unless it was he who was the artist, scowled at her. “Well, what?” he snapped. “You’ve no place to be here. Be off with you.”

Azelma was not faced by his words. “What is supposed to be done? I told you, I’d help you if you help me.”

“I don’t need help from criminals.”

Azelma kept staring at him, her eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. He knew that look, Javert realized suddenly. It was the look of a child who had not eaten in a day or more.

Yet what was that to him? He had not eaten either as a child. Yet unlike Azelma, it had not kept him from doing what was right. She, too, was old enough to find work as he had done, in a factory somewhere, or with a seamstress perhaps.

A moment later, to his surprise, he found that he had reached into his pocket. There was a forty sous piece there; his fingers clenched around it.

“Pontmercy will do nothing about it,” he said, hesitating for a moment. Did she know about Pontmercy’s father? Dimly, Javert remembered that in Montfermeil, a board had been nailed above the inn’s door. It had shown the battlefield of Waterloo.

“It’s called off. Without Pontmercy to assist us in the matter, I can’t arrest your father there in the act. But he’ll end up behind bars anyway, sooner or later. So will you,” he said. Then, for no reason that he could discern, grimacing at his own action, he pulled out the coin and gave it to her.

“Don’t talk to your father. Eat.”

Azelma scowled at him, her dirty hair hanging into his eyes. “I’m not stupid. I don’t care about Monsieur Marius. Éponine liked him. But I don’t like anyone. Least of all old men.”

She raised the coin to her eyes to study it. For a moment, as she saw that it was a whole forty sous, excitement filled her eyes so that she looked almost like a young child.

Then she looked at Javert again, and the hardness of an adult was in her eyes, her face sharp and gaunt like that of a starving fox in winter. “You’ll find a way to be there anyway. Tomorrow evening, at eight. That’s when it’ll go down.”

“But Pontmercy won’t—”

“No matter,” she said, and then she turned away from him, humming a song. “Just make sure you’re there. And bring that old philanthropist.”


	93. Chapter 93

Javert had not told him details of what was going on, but Valjean thought he knew well enough. There was no other possible reason, after all, for why he and Javert should stand in an antechamber in the Gillenormand household, pressed against a door, than that plot Thénardier had hatched.

Basque, after having informed them that M. le Baron was busy with a rather peculiar person, had left them to their own entertainment at Javert’s command. Javert, being Cosette’s father on paper, enjoyed a certain freedom in the household which so far he had chosen to ignore by not entering the house unless it could not be avoided. Valjean, likewise, had given the excuse that he was gone on a journey, which was why he had not come to visit Cosette since their conversation with Pontmercy.

Pontmercy, who now knew about him. Pontmercy had seen the brand.

Valjean shuddered to even contemplate that terrible truth. He should not have come—but he could not have let Javert go on his own either. Those terrible moments of the barricade were still too close. He would not let Javert endanger himself for him again.

In any case, Valjean was the reason Thénardier had come. Valjean had not told Javert, but in his pocket, there were the five thousand franc bills he had taken from Cosette’s dowry, and which he had hoped would suffice to pay for his share of whatever new life he would find with Javert.

Now, if worst came to worst, he could pay Thénardier off himself.

Javert stiffened. Valjean could feel the tension that ran through his body, pressed together as they were. Then he heard it, too: the indistinct mumble of voices had suddenly become louder. Thénardier and Pontmercy must have moved closer to this side of the room.

“The journey is long and costly. I need a little money,” a stranger’s voice said. It was not the sound of Thénardier’s voice as Valjean recalled it: it was nasal instead of shrill and dry.

“What concern is that of mine?”

That was clearly Pontmercy’s voice. Had Thénardier sent another to extort money for him?

The thought of such a band of thieves in the home of Cosette made Valjean shudder. Revulsion at himself rose up inside him—had he not been selfish to let it come to this? Better he had turned himself in months ago, better to have left long before the wedding, than to have brought such a taint into her life of innocent joy…

“I have a secret to sell to you,” the stranger’s voice now said.

Javert was still listening intently. He had a hand in his pocket, where Valjean could feel the hard shape of a gun.

“The secret behind the fortune of Madame la Baronne.”

Valjean felt the words like a knife in his heart.

“Give me twenty thousand francs and I shall tell you.”

Pontmercy's voice was cold as he replied, “I know your secret.”

“Ten thousand francs, and I will speak.”

How much had Thénardier gathered about Valjean’s identity?

“I know what you wish to say.”

“Very well!” Thénardier’s friend cried. “Twenty francs then, so I can eat today.”

“I know your secret,” Pontmercy said evenly. “And I know Jean Valjean’s name. Just as I know your name.”

“That’s because I told you. It’s Thénard.”

“—Dier,” Pontmercy finished.

Javert and Valjean looked at each other, shocked to realize that the stranger, whose voice they had not recognized, was Thénardier after all.

Valjean gave Javert a questioning look. He still did not understand what was to be done. To let Javert arrest Thénardier—and then?

It was true that Jean Valjean was dead. It was also true that surely no one would pay the ramblings of a villain like Thénardier any mind.

And yet. It still made Valjean shudder to hear his name spoken. And then, Thénardier had mentioned Cosette’s fortune. Did he know that it had been stolen from the state, who had tried to claim his fortune once, but had received only half of it?

Javert raised a finger to his lips, then pressed his ear against the door again.

“I tell you that your name is Thénardier, and that you are a rascal!”

No sooner had the name echoed from beyond the closed door than Javert let out a deep, satisfied, "Ha!" and pulled the door open, advancing onto the shocked Thénardier with his gun drawn like Michael himself descending from the Heavens, sword in hand.

Valjean watched as Javert strode quickly towards Thénardier, giving the man no chance to escape the room.

"Thénardier," Javert declared with deep satisfaction, "I'm certain you remember me. This time, you won't escape."

"M. Javert!" Pontmercy said, white-faced as he turned around. In his hand, he held a small bundle of banknotes. It seemed that Javert had stopped him just in time.

Valjean felt his stomach turn as he looked at Thénardier. The man was nearly unrecognizable—yet Valjean knew how the transformation had come about. There were many tricks a man on the run from the police might employ, and it seemed as if Thénardier had used them well.

In frustration, Thénardier reached up and tore off his wig, green spectacles and the quills he had stuffed into his nose to change its shape.

"Very well then," Thénardier exclaimed. "Since you know my name, let's talk like honest fellows. I know you, just as you know me. And I know that man over there. I know his name is Jean Valjean. I know he is a convict. And I know that Madame la Baronne's fortune comes from this man. See if you still want to put me behind bars now."

"I know all of those things," Pontmercy said, his voice tight with disgust. "They don't matter to me. You see, Thénardier, you rascal, you villain, the man over there is an honest man. But you, you ruffian—"

"What now!" Thénardier cried out, "I have come to save M. le Baron from—"

"You saved a Colonel once, on the field of Waterloo," Pontmercy said.

"A general," Thénardier immediately replied, drawing himself up.

"A Colonel!" Pontmercy cried. "I would not have cared about a General!"

Pontmercy turned to face Javert, who still brandished his gun. "You will let this man leave, Inspector," he demanded. "This man will leave the country. He will never be seen again."

"If M. le Baron is so kind as to pay for the journey, I will travel on the next ship to America," Thénardier agreed.

"No," Javert interjected through clenched teeth. "This man tried to murder me in my sleep. This man's accomplice wounded me with a poisoned knife. How many more people will suffer at his hands?"

Valjean stood silent in the doorway, not daring to approach. To think that Thénardier had the power to hurt Cosette...

"Surely you do not want Madame la Baronne's reputation to suffer. I wonder that you do not arrest that convict over there."

"Be silent," Javert snapped, fury in his voice. "You tales won't help you in La Force. This time, I'll have them watch you day and night."

"No," Pontmercy said again, taking a step closer to position himself between Thénardier and the gun. "I can't allow that. Let me pay this villain so he will leave; I owe that debt to my father."

Javert made a furious sound, Thénardier using the moment of distraction to inch closer towards the door at the other side of the room, from which he must have entered.

"Out of my way!" Javert demanded heatedly, reaching out to push Pontmercy aside.

At the same moment, Thénardier decided to make a run for it. With several fast steps, he was at the door. He reached out for it—and the moment his hands touched the handle, it opened, and in strode Cosette.

Thénardier took a shocked step back in the room. With determination on her face, Cosette faced him.

"So it is you!" she said, and although she was pale as well, her voice was firm. "I remember you now. I did not remember when we visited your garret—but I do know you. Thénardier. You will not pay him off, Marius. He does not deserve it."

Valjean found himself clutching as his breast as he watched her take a further stride towards Thénardier. Was it all too late? Did Cosette know? Was his shame, after all these years, revealed; would she know now that he was no better than those miserable wretches they had seen when the chain-gang passed, barely even human?

How he wished now that he had sought out Thénardier himself, offered him his remaining five thousand francs, and then vanished once and forever, leaving Javert and Cosette to a life untainted by his past.

"What now," Thénardier said, wheedling, "it's the Lark—pardon, Madame la Baronne. How many years have passed; oh, she must have forgotten all about how happy she was when she played with my daughters as a child. What a sweet picture that was; like three sisters, all—"

"Marius," Cosette said, her head held high although she seemed obviously shaken, "you will leave this man with M. Javert, and you will walk with me in the garden now. There is someone I want you to meet."

Valjean took a hesitant step further into the room—and at that exact moment, Thénardier, who must have seen his chances of talking his way out of the situation slipping away, pushed Cosette to the side and dashed out of the door.

Javert cried out in frustration, although he did not shoot, for both Pontmercy and Cosette were too close. Instead, he rushed after Thénardier—only to stop in the door, slowly lowering his gun as he peered into the antechamber.

Then he turned back. There was a small smile on his face as he made his way towards Valjean.

Every instinct told Valjean to leave. He could not bear to raise his head, to see in Cosette's eyes that same horror that he had seen when they had seen the chain-gang pass near the Barrière du Maine. How much had Cosette overheard? How long had she been there?

"We have him," Javert declared triumphantly.

"Come," Cosette said, tugging on Pontmercy's hand. "I promise you will understand if you just follow me. I swear it. Were your father here with us, he would command you to come and see what I must show you."

That earnest entreaty seemed to at last release Pontmercy from his shock, and he followed Cosette, quiet, with only one final unsettled look at Javert, exiting the room through the door behind which Valjean and Javert had hidden.

Valjean barely saw them pass him by. His earlier terror at Cosette's presence had been replaced by a blow that shook him to his core when now Thénardier was marched back into the room by a man holding a gun.

"Ah, Demars. Well done," Javert said. "I trust there is a carriage outside?"

"Everything's arranged, as always," the man whom Javert had called Demars said.

He was about Valjean’s age, perhaps a few years older. His hair was grey, but he was broad-shouldered and powerfully built, with the physique of a man used to hard labor. His hands were large and rough, and at his neck, there was a scar.

Valjean could not take his eyes off the man. Three decades had passed since he had last seen him, and yet he had immediately recognized those brown eyes and the shape of his mouth—the first lips he had ever kissed.

"Boucard," he said, his mouth dry as his pulse kept racing. He reached out with one hand for the wall, steadying himself.

Boucard turned, for the first time taking him in—and then his own eyes widened.

Valjean could not turn his head to take in Javert's reaction.

It was Boucard. It truly was he—the man who had first shown Valjean kindness in those long years of darkness, the only comfort he had known during those years. Valjean remembered the touch of his hands even now.

Boucard met his gaze. His brown eyes darkened and his mouth opened.

Then he seemed to remember where he was—and who was still in his power.

"I'll take this one out and let the men take him to La Force," he said to Javert, speaking to him as if he knew him—and of course, Javert had shown no surprise at all to see Boucard enter.

"Then I'll return," Boucard added with a small nod for Valjean.

He was being cautious, Valjean realized, his heart still thundering in his chest as Thénardier was pushed out of the room at gunpoint.

And of course, that was smart. Boucard did not want to give Thénardier more ammunition with which to blackmail.

Had Valjean in turn given away Boucard's secret? Javert had called him by a different name...

When Valjean at last dared to raise his eyes to Javert, he saw that Javert was frowning.

Had Javert known? No—Javert seemed just as unsettled by the events as Valjean. In any case, Valjean did not think Javert would have forced such an encounter. Not Javert, who to this day sought proof that Valjean was well and truly his, every time Valjean's years in the bagne were brought up.

Swallowing, Valjean at last made himself walk towards Javert. He took hold of his hand and squeezed it gently. This was the only contact he allowed himself, here in Pontmercy's study.

Then, before Javert could begin to ask questions, Boucard returned. Deliberately, he closed the door behind himself. Then he looked around. Except for Javert, they were alone now.

Valjean could see the look Boucard gave Javert. Whoever Javert was to him, it was obvious now that neither of them had known what the other was to Valjean.

Valjean forced himself to walk forward. He swallowed as he stopped in front of Boucard. His hands trembled as he reached out for his hands.

"It is truly you," Valjean said softly as he pressed them.

"Jean Valjean," Boucard murmured, a tremor in his voice.

Then his arms came around Valjean, and he pulled him into a hard embrace.

"I thought you were dead! You did not write—and once, when I made enquiries years later, I heard that you were still in Toulon, that you’d tried to escape again and again."

"It was so long ago," Valjean said, trembling as he remembered those moments a lifetime ago, when he had rested in these arms and found a brief reprieve from his misery. Why had he never written to him?

 Boucard looked around, taking in the elaborate study. "Let us take this elsewhere," he said. "There is a wine-shop I know, not far, where a man might have privacy."

Valjean stiffened all of a sudden, remembering where they were and what had come to pass—and remembering also that Javert was still there with them.

He turned. Javert was staring at them, his brows drawn together. Valjean thought of something to say, but nothing would pass his lips.

"You know each other," Javert said after a moment when Boucard as well turned to face him. "Of course," he then muttered, "I knew you were a convict—Vidocq even mentioned Toulon. I did not think to look into it further than that—"

"You are acquainted," Boucard said in turn, looking from Valjean to Javert. "It is not just that this case of blackmail involves you?"

Valjean found himself flushing and lowering his eyes. "He is a friend," he murmured. "But never mind about me."

He was saved from his embarrassment when Pontmercy and Cosette returned to the study—bringing with them a third person, a girl clad in rags, little more than a child for all the sharp, hungry lines of her face.

"Thénardier?" Pontmercy’s eyes searched the room.

"On the way to La Force," Boucard replied.

Pontmercy nodded slowly, looking shaken. "Very well."

"You are no longer in support of releasing him then?" Javert asked.

Pontmercy shook his head while Valjean continued to study the girl. She was a few years younger than Cosette, but now that she stood next to her, recognition welled up in Valjean. He had seen her not too long ago, in a certain garret in the Gorbeau hovel. Her hand had been bleeding and bandaged.

She was Thénardier's other daughter. Once, many years ago, he had seen her play with a toy in an inn in Montfermeil while Cosette cringed beneath a table, knitting socks.

"You," Javert said with displeasure. "What are you doing here? This is no place for you. You'll end up where your father is going."

"No," Azelma said. She gave him a sharp smile, showing her teeth. "He can't go where I'm going. I'm going to America. One can make a life there. There won't be no old fellows looking at me, and no father. No sister or brother either, but that is well. They’re all dead. It’s just me now, and that suits me just fine. I will go and be somebody else, and I will eat every day, and I won’t be cold no more.”

“You? To America?” Javert asked, aghast. “What is this nonsense? How would you pay—”

“Oh, I have money now,” Azelma said dreamily. “Fifteen thousand.”

“Did she extort you?” There was anger in Javert’s eyes as he turned towards Pontmercy.

Valjean rested a hand on his arm to hold him back.

“Once, her father saved mine on the battlefield of Waterloo,” Pontmercy said with cold dignity. “It is only right that the son should repay the daughter. You will not interfere in this, Inspector. You have no right.”

“And Thénardier?” Javert demanded.

“Will go to prison.” Pontmercy was calm but collected. “You are right, Inspector. One saved life cannot make up for a hundred ruined. But I have paid my debt to the daughter. I think my father would satisfied.”


	94. Chapter 94

A day later, Javert found himself eyeing Boucard, who now went by the name Demars, with barely concealed distaste.

As if it was not enough that Fate had conspired against him to make him work amongst villains and convicts, it had furthermore led him to work with the very man who had been Jean Valjean's first lover in Toulon.

Even now, Javert clenched his fingers helplessly, thinking of the many moments in which he had held Valjean’s strong body in his arms, tasting his surrender—and thinking of Boucard touching what was his.

"You do not look pleased to see me," Boucard said with a shrewd smile. "I wonder why that is."

"Save your jibes for someone else," Javert bit out. "I'm not in the mood for games."

Boucard's smile widened. "I don't seek to play games. Not with you. We've worked well together, haven't we? For all that I'm a convict. But then, who would have guessed that you could feel so charitable towards convicts. Sharing your house. Sharing your—"

"Will you be silent!" Javert hissed, fury burning through him, only to be quickly replaced with mortal embarrassment.

And was this not what he had feared all along? Their most intimate secrets pulled out into the open, a former convict stripping him bare—him, Javert!

Boucard laughed softly, watching him with amusement. Then he grew earnest. "You needn’t fear that I will use this against you. Not ever. No matter what you think of me. Once, I hoped that Jean Valjean would come to me. I was prepared to share my life with him. I was a younger man then, and it was a lifetime ago. He is a very different man now—and so, I think, am I. I have no wish to harm you or him. Or anyone else, for that matter. I am weary, Javert. I took this job because I didn’t want a life in the shadows. I thought, even with my talents, a man could do good. And I think you know that I've done good. We've done good, together."

"Maybe," Javert said begrudgingly, still not prepared to admit that there was more to Vidocq’s menagerie of villains.

"In any case, I am glad that he’s alive. And that he has found company to keep him warm. He always was— He was so pliant back then. Starved for the slightest show for affection. But in a way, we all were. You of all people know what it's like."

Javert gritted his teeth. "I have no idea what you mean."

"I wish you joy with him," Boucard said. "I'll take his word that you are a good man. And I hope you know that I truly wish him well. I would not destroy his happiness. You have nothing to fear from me."

Javert stared at the man before him for a long moment. Convict, criminal—and his colleague. It was true; Boucard had, for the most part, done good work. For all the instinctive humiliation and fury Javert had felt at being forced to work together with this man, Boucard had been no worse than many of the men he had worked with before. Indeed, better than some of them, if Javert thought back to Claquesous' flight from the carriage.

"I will not be blackmailed," he said a little stiffly, still feeling a furious embarrassment that such things should be public knowledge.

"I told you," Boucard said patiently, "I've got no interest in that. Of course, whether you believe me or not is up to you. Perhaps you should ask your friend whether he trusts me."

Javert gritted his teeth, but acknowledged Boucard's words with a stiff nod of his head.

There was no need for him to go and ask Valjean for his opinion. Valjean trusted Boucard. And Javert was not prepared to bring up the subject again; already he had been haunted by visions of Valjean being possessed by other men, long years ago. Valjean was his, only his; Valjean had sworn he was.

The past no longer mattered—even though his own jealousy was not easy to suppress, and would only be satisfied by taking possession of Valjean again and again, night after night, until his skin knew the rightfulness of Valjean's body pressed against his own.

Boucard's lip twitched as he looked at him thoughtfully. "Strange that he should have chosen you," he mused. "You, of all people. But then, even back then, he was—"

"The sort of man who enjoys belonging to another," Javert said, a little spitefully. "Yes, I assume you know that well. And that you will remember it."

Boucard laughed softly. "He must enjoy that indeed, to have chosen your company. Be at ease, I won't interfere. You need not bark at me like a watchdog. It was many years ago. I have a life of my own, and no intention to take him away from you."

"Well," Javert muttered, not quite pacified, and not quite certain what to do with this restlessness inside him. "As long as you remember that."

***

Several hours later, the restlessness had only grown. Vidocq had been nowhere to be found—an event Javert would have appreciated mere days earlier. But now, with every muscle in his body tense, his hands clenching uselessly, yearning for something he could not allow himself to name lest he embarrass himself while at his post, Javert paced back and forth impatiently.

Thénardier had gone to jail. Azelma had gone to America. There, perhaps, the girl would squander her money away and die in a cell as well, but that was all the same to him. Pontmercy and Cosette had gone to see her off. And Valjean...

Now that he thought of it, Valjean had been strangely silent.

Had it been Boucard's revelation after all? Had the encounter woken old feelings; was Valjean feeling nostalgia for the embrace of a man who had suffered by his side, instead of tormenting him for so many years?

Again Javert imagined Valjean chained and stretched out on wooden planks, his thighs spreading as he reached out for Boucard.

"Inspector? A note for you."

Javert was almost grateful for the interruption, even though it did not promise anything good. The note was short, penned in Gisquet’s familiar handwriting and summoning him to the Prefect's office.

Javert clenched his jaw as he looked around. "Where the devil's Vidocq?" he asked no one in particular, for there was no one else around, Boucard having left to look into another case of theft.

Then he shoved Gisquet's note into his pocket and took his hat. There was no use waiting here, especially without a task to distract him from his thoughts of Valjean. Better to not leave Gisquet waiting. Surely the summons could mean only one thing: his dismissal from the police. He could not fall further than he already had, after all. If Gisquet had heard rumors of his arrangement with Valjean...

But no, if Gisquet knew the truth about Jean Valjean, surely both of them would already be in jail, and Cosette's fortune confiscated.

Yet what else could Gisquet want of him? He had displeased the Prefect; he had asked unpopular questions; he had been humiliated by being forced to work among ex-convicts in Vidocq's band of villains. There was nowhere else for him to go now.

***

"I've received good reports about you," Gisquet said, "indeed, I'm very pleased."

Javert stared at the Prefect, not understanding. Valjean had been mentioned with no word; neither had Thénardier.

"Would you like a drink, Javert? Please, sit down." Gisquet gestured at a chair, then poured some brandy.

"No, thank you, M. le préfet," Javert said humbly, utterly confused.

"Now, I know you will not have appreciated your time with Vidocq, but I will not apologize for it." There was something very knowing in Gisquet’s eyes.

"I would not expect you to, monsieur," Javert said through clenched teeth. "You expected me to do my duty, and I did."

"You did indeed, and admirably so. I do not think Vidocq believed you’d stay for more than a week. In any case," Gisquet allowed himself a small smile, "what he thinks is no longer of importance."

"What do you mean, monsieur?" Javert asked, hardly daring to believe that he would be offered his old post.

"Vidocq is no longer in command of the Sûreté. It has been taken from him. As you will agree, it’s hardly appropriate for criminals and convicts to hold such positions. It is to be rebuilt from the ground, with Pierre Allard at the head, and only men of pristine reputation to do the work."

"I see, monsieur," Javert said, dazed.

Boucard would be out of work...

"You have no cause for concern, of course. I think we two have overcome that little difference of opinion we had a while ago, don't you think?" Gisquet's smile widened. "I have recommended you to Allard's service. You will meet with him tomorrow. He will be pleased to have an experienced man, and I have no doubt you will continue your good work."

"Of course, monsieur." Javert was still reeling.

Vidocq gone. The Sûreté dismantled, rebuilt under a different man—a man who would not force him to work with convicts and thieves, a man who would share Javert's ideas of what was right and just...

Once more he saw Boucard before him, sharing a bottle of wine as they listened to Thénardier discuss his plans with Claquesous in the wine-shop.

It had been Boucard, too, who had apprehended Thénardier when he had tried to flee.

Boucard had done good work. It was impossible to deny that. And yet, should Javert now tell Gisquet that he had changed his mind, that he supported Vidocq's strange ideas, that he was content to work side by side with men he had spent a lifetime putting behind bars?

He was still reeling when he left the Prefecture. It was early yet; he never came home at such an hour. Despite Gisquet's words, he found himself returning to his work, although the rooms were still empty, Vidocq gone. For an hour, Javert put order into his papers, making copies of several reports he had planned to follow up on, just in case those got lost in the upheaval that was to follow.

When he left, it was barely past noon. And there, in the antechamber, a familiar face awaited him.

Vidocq had returned.

For a long moment, Vidocq watched him silently, until Javert felt himself growing restless. What could the man want with him? It was hardly Javert's fault, in any case; any difficulties Vidocq had encountered could only blame on his own background.

"You will have heard by now, I assume," Vidocq said at last, raising a brow.

Javert nodded.

"I wondered if I might find you here." Vidocq grinned. "Of course, I am rarely mistaken."

"Say what you want, monsieur," Javert said curtly.

Vidocq laughed. "No need for such hostility. I came to inform you that I'm retiring to Saint-Mandé. I intend to open a business there—employing former convicts."

Javert tensed.

"Demars will come with me. Or Boucard, as he used to be known. I think you have heard his story by now."

"I do not care about your business," Javert said with as much politeness as he could muster. "But I am glad for Demars. What does this have to do with me?"

"Nothing,” Vidocq said, still smiling the sharp-toothed grin of the fox. "I just thought you might want to know that there are business opportunities for ex-convicts. From what I’ve heard, you are intimately acquainted with one."

Distantly, Javert heard a dim sound of range. A moment later, he found himself with his hands fisted around Vidocq’s collar, the man pressed against the wall.

"Careful, Javert." Vidocq, damn him, was still smiling. "It wasn't a threat. Not even a warning. Simply a suggestion—don't burn your bridges."

After a moment, still trembling with shock and dismay at the thought that this horrible, insufferable man might know about Valjean—more, know about what he and Javert shared—Javert managed to release Vidocq's collar and take a step back.

"Good," Vidocq said, straightening. "Now listen to me. I don't care what you get up to with that friend of yours. And no, Boucard didn't rat you out. What do you think I'd do when Gisquet himself sends a spy into my house? Of course I looked into you. I'm not trying to blackmail you, Javert. I don't want a favor. I'm only here to tell you that Allard won't last. And I would like you to still be here when I return."

"I won't inform or intrigue—"

"Of course not," Vidocq said, his smile thin. "I would not have expected that of you. Still, it will be good to have a familiar face among Allard's crowd. And if your particular friend is in search of a business opportunity—"

"You will stay away from him," Javert said, breathing heavily. "You won't ever speak his name, or mention him to anyone. Swear it."

"Very well," Vidocq said and raised his hands. "In any case, what would I get out of threatening you? Boucard, too, feels protective of your friend. All I want is to know that a man I trust remains here—and will still be here when I return."

"I might not be," Javert said bitterly. "I'm not cut out for these games."

“Oh, you’ll find that you’re doing better at it than any of us anticipated.” This time, the laugh that escaped Vidocq seemed almost genuine. “I wagered you would not last for more than three days. It’s curious, really… I think neither did Gisquet. Shall we see how long you last with Allard?”

***

Pierre Allard was, Javert found, a superior more to his liking in many ways, not the least of it the fact that neither he nor the men working for him were ex-convicts.

Which had other consequences Javert had not foreseen. Consequences like the fact that all of a sudden, many of their sources of information had dried up—and that the red-faced idiot whom Allard had made work with him was as inconspicuous in the shady wine-shops as an elephant.

On the other hand, Javert no longer had to feel as if his assignation to the Sûreté was a punishment meant to humiliate him. There was little respectable in being a police-spy—but that had never bothered him before.

In fact, he thought as he looked at Jean Valjean, seated by the window, the sunlight warm on his skin, perhaps it was strange that it should have bothered him to work together with ex-convicts when he’d taken one into his bed—and his heart.

“I have a new job,” Boucard said, leaning forward a little to look at Valjean.

Javert felt a familiar spike of jealousy surge inside him.

“It’s a little project of Vidocq. You should come visit, in fact. I’m sure he’d like to know you.”

“Absolutely out of the question,” Javert snapped.

Valjean gave him amused look, his eyes warm and soft, before he addressed Boucard. “Jean Valjean doesn’t exist anymore. He’s dead. You know it’s for the best.”

Boucard nodded slowly, then let his eyes travel around the room—their study in the Rue Plumet, which they had not yet moved out of. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave this life behind.”

Was there judgment in it? Javert thought he saw Valjean flush.

“How I live is of no concern to you,” Javert spat out, and in turn Boucard smiled again.

“A comfortable life for an inspector,” he said drily.

Stiffly, Javert drew himself up. “You will remember that my—”

“Never mind,” Boucard said, his smile widening a little, as if it had been his plan all along to rile Javert and see him react. For a moment, Javert found himself speechless. The outrageousness of such an act—to come to him in his own house—

“Javert,” Valjean said calmly. His eyes were still warm. “Will you please leave us for a moment?”

Javert straightened, another brisk denial on his tongue. He swallowed it as he looked at Valjean. Valjean had been quiet, even amused, at his reaction to Boucard. But now, there was some of that old, steely stubbornness in his eyes. It was something Javert had learned he could not subdue, as much as he might have wanted to, once, long ago.

“Very well,” he said ungraciously. “And then I assume you have work you need to return to.”

Boucard laughed softly at his open displeasure, but Valjean smiled at him, and despite Javert’s lack of manners, there was a fondness in it, as if Valjean was well aware of the old jealousy that ate away at him.

Very well then, let Valjean have his private moment. Javert would make him pay for it tonight, and in the end, they would both be pleased by that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't entirely historical correct as some of these events (like Vidocq's sacking and Allard taking over) happened a little earlier, but then, who knows what sort of butterfly effect the divergence of this AU caused...


	95. Chapter 95

Valjean could still barely believe that it was truly Boucard standing before him, even though they had talked for a short while after that encounter in Pontmercy’s study. Even now, a shiver ran through Valjean, followed by breathless shock when Boucard's hands cupped his face. His fingers were warm and rough—just as they had been.

Just as he had dreamed of, so many nights, ever since Javert had woken this part of him again.

Now, as Valjean stared into the familiar, warm eyes, he could not help the remorse that rose up inside him once more. He knew that Boucard did not blame him for not seeking him out. So much time had passed.

And yet, to stand in front of him once more, four decades later...

“You're his,” Boucard said, tilting his head to the side in amusement. “Inspector Javert. I thought it couldn't possibly—but there's no doubt about it. I see the way he looks at you. And I see the way you look at him. You could have told me.”

Valjean felt his cheeks heat, but he did not deny it.

“ _Javert_?” Boucard said again. “He was in _Toulon_. He loathes working with us.” He paused for a moment, then his smile grew wicked, and his fingers tightened a little. “He's good at giving you what you like?”

Valjean, now sixty-four years of age, found himself blushing as heatedly as he had when hands had moved beneath his blanket for the first time. Boucard had not changed. Valjean remembered now his confidence, the strength of his body, the comfort of hands that knew what to do. Young, afraid and overwhelmed by despair, Boucard’s certainty had been a rock to cling to during those first years.

Javert was no rock, and Valjean no longer an inexperienced young man trapped in hell. And yet Boucard was not wrong. Valjean wanted what Javert could give him. Javert, who possessed him with the same desperation with which Valjean had clung to his chainmate, long ago. Javert, who had chained and whipped him—and who had since saved his life and sacrificed much for him.

“Oh, he must be very good,” Boucard murmured, taking a step closer.

Instinct made Valjean give way, until the shock of the wall against his shoulders pulled him out of the trance he had fallen into.

“He is a good man,” Valjean said a little helplessly. “I know it’s hard to understand, but he is—he is good to me. Never doubt that. I trust him with my life. Last year, he took a bullet for me.”

Boucard was still smiling as he studied Valjean's face. “I thought a man like Javert could not possible appreciate what he has in you. But perhaps you're right, and I’m wrong about him. He's a right bastard to work with. I hope he’s better company in the bedroom.”

Embarrassed, Valjean inclined his head. He did not know what to say. He could not tell Boucard the full story. It was bad enough that Valjean shared his bed with a man who had once been his jailer. How would he explain that Javert had been not only jailer, but also owner, slaver?

“Well. You know where to find me, should he cease to satisfy,” Boucard said, and then, at last, released Valjean and took a step back. “I'm moving to Saint-Mandé. A job at Vidocq's new paper factory. It's honest work, which is all I want. And that's not easy to come by for a man like me.”

“I will write,” Valjean promised—and then he reached out his hand, trailing his fingers over that familiar cheek once more, resting his fingertips against the scar at Boucard’s neck. “I will write. I promise.”

Boucard's mouth twitched. “Your inspector will be jealous. This is truly a thing you want? If you need—”

“This is truly a thing I want,” Valjean said, and then, for the first time, he allowed the past to fall away, the frightened young boy he had been to sink back into the morass of time. He looked at Boucard, taking in the hair that had gone grey, the lines around his mouth, the new scars. A lifetime lived without him.

But he had lived through a lifetime of his own, and for all that the path had so often been impossibly hard, he would not give Javert up now, not for anything in the world.

“Thank you,” Valjean said softly. “I will write, and you must let me know when you are visiting. But I am—” 

Was he happy? Surprised, he halted for a heartbeat. He had not been happy since Cosette had been taken from him by Pontmercy. He had not thought he would ever be happy again.

But to be with Javert was good. And after the past had been revealed to Pontmercy, the boy had encouraged Cosette to keep inviting him, and neither his nor Javert's protests had made any difference. Cosette had wiped away all of his protests and excuses, and trembling, ecstatic and overwhelmed, Valjean had been made to promise that he would visit her every day.

“I am happy,” he said, meeting Boucard's eyes.

Boucard nodded slowly. “You have changed,” he said.

Valjean could not help but smile. “You would not have liked the man I was when I left Toulon. It was Toulon that changed me. I was full of hate.”

Boucard tilted his head again. “And now, you're so full of love you're letting a guard fuck you.”

Valjean flushed brightly again, but this time, he did not lower his eyes. “I have changed. Javert has changed. I would not be with him now if he hadn't.”

“And there's a daughter.” Boucard laughed softly. “Javert’s daughter—who calls you father. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it all with my own eyes.”

“You've been very good to me, at a time when I needed it most.”

Boucard chuckled. “You were good to me too, from what I remember,” he said roughly. “It wasn't—”

“I know.” Valjean reached out to press Boucard’s hand. “I had no choice in who they chained me to. I never had a choice. And neither had you. But I tell you, there was kindness in your touch. At that time, no one had touched me with kindness before. And you needn’t have been kind. That was a choice you made.”

“Well,” Boucard said, his voice hoarse, “and you're making a choice now. You're welcome to him. Who knows, if you keep working on him, he might yet grow mellow. I thought he hated us all, but here it turns out that he actually worked together with Thénardier's girl to pull this all off. Who knows what else he'll do.”

“I'll write,” Valjean said again, even now reluctant to part from Boucard. How strange that just when he had thought all lost, fate had revealed all, returned Cosette to him, at least in part, and given him this man, whom he had thought he would never see again.

“Do write this time.” Boucard took a step closer, crowding him against the wall once more.

His eyes were warm and amused, and Valjean found he could not take his eyes off him. How strange it was. Four decades had passed. Boucard had grown old and gray—and yet some things had not changed at all.

Boucard chuckled again, the sound low and intimate, his breath warm against Valjean's skin. “Yes, I do see how he must please you,” he murmured, his eyes wicked. “You did always like it to have someone take care of you. Well, it won't please him that I know—but I do know. And it'll please me to know what he sees every time he looks at me, if we see each other again. Farewell, Jean Valjean. And do keep your promise this time.

***

“There you are,” Javert said when Valjean entered their house in the Rue Plumet. “I take it the conversation was enjoyable?”

Valjean inclined his head, watching Javert warily. Was Javert upset that he had spent time with Boucard alone?

It was true—Javert had so often jealously demanded to know all about the comfort Valjean had known in the bagne. But surely Javert knew that those events had taken place four decades ago, and that nothing had changed about the affection he felt for Javert?

Valjean’s mouth curved into a slight smile. “Do I need to let you have me on a bed of planks tonight?” The offer was as earnest as humorous.

A second later, his breath escaped from his lungs in a surprised gasp when Javert was upon him like a ravenous wolf, Valjean's back hitting the wall while Javert's fingers tightened around his collar.

Then Javert's mouth was on his. For a long moment Valjean stopped thinking, unable to do anything but gasp helplessly when Javert took his mouth almost brutally, kissing him until Valjean was dizzy, his body yielding to Javert's desperate onslaught.

Moaning, Valjean reached up, threading his fingers into Javert's hair. His heart raced ecstatically as all of his senses were overwhelmed by the familiarity of Javert: the scratching of his coarse whiskers, the firmness of the narrow lips, the firm angles of his tall body, the irresistible hunger with which Javert took control of him, like a starving wolf falling upon a lamb.

And Valjean offered no resistance. His legs parted eagerly as Javert's knee came between them, his own body already achingly aroused even before Javert’s thigh pressed against him.

When Javert at last drew back, Valjean was panting, dizzy from lack of air. Then Javert’s hand began hastily unbuttoning his trousers.

“The bed, Javert,” Valjean gasped, pushing gently against Javert’s chest. “You can’t—”

The sound that escaped Javert was little more than a snarl, all hunger and desire. It made something inside Valjean tighten with want. Even so, he pushed gently against Javert’s chest. It would be better in a bed than against a wall. And afterward, once Javert was sated, he would be able to hold him close…

“Hurry up then,” Javert bit out, his hands on the buttons of his own coat even as they stumbled towards Javert’s bedroom together. Shirts and trousers strewn alongside their route, Valjean at last found himself pushed down hard onto the mattress, and a moment later, Javert was atop him, that harsh mouth soft and hot against his nipple for a moment before he bit down.

Valjean gasped. He arched against Javert, his fingers threading through Javert’s hair as he held him in place. His nipple ached, but even so he wanted it.

He spread his legs again, one hand trailing down Javert’s back to encourage him. Javert was hard, too. His prick brushed against his crease, hot and one-minded in its pursuit, and Valjean was all too glad to yield to its desire.

A moment later, biting back a curse, Javert reared back. Wood creaked as he rummaged in the drawer. Then his hand was back between their bodies, slick with oil he hastily smoothed over himself.

The first time they had done this, it had been Valjean who had prepared him. Now Valjean allowed his thighs to fall open wider as he watched, giving himself over to Javert who looked down at him with wild eyes, whiskers bristling, his eyes so dark they appeared almost black.

Then Javert pushed inside him, and Valjean cried out. Today, Javert was relentless, driving into him again and again while Valjean trembled at the almost unbearable ecstasy of being filled in such a way. Every thrust made the heat within him build, the pressure of Javert stretching him open making his body arch, his balls heavy and full as he surrendered himself.

Javert’s hand, still slick, slid between their bodies once more. His fingers found him, closing around his balls. Javert increased the pressure just enough to make Valjean moan in desperation and squeeze his eyes shut as he kept trembling, hanging in the balance.

“Still mine,” Javert said, gritting his teeth as he panted the words, his thumb pressing down, parting his testicles in their pouch. “Still mine. Say it. Say it; say that you’re—”

“Yours,” Valjean gasped. A low groan escaped him, his body taut as a bow as Javert kept him hanging in the balance. Tears had welled up in his eyes; he could not say whether from Javert’s forceful grip on his testes or the nearly unbearable pleasure of Javert inside him.

“Yours, always yours. Javert, please…”

Again Javert’s hips came forward, again and again, every slide of his prick deep inside him sending painfully sharp bolts of ecstasy shooting through him. Helplessly, he clawed at the sheets with one hand while he reached down with the other, moaning as he stroked himself in time to Javert’s thrusts while Javert kept a firm hold of his testicles, his grip just short of bruising. Even that was good, the dull, aching pressure keeping him from finishing as Javert drew it out until Valjean could no longer think, utterly lost in sensation.

And then, at last, Javert lost his rhythm. The hard, punishing thrusts turned into a staccato as Javert arched and groaned, the cruel fingers finally losing their hold—and Valjean’s entire body stiffened, release rushing through him even as he felt Javert spilling himself inside him.

Long minutes later, Valjean was the first to move. His hand rose, gently brushing Javert’s damp hair away from his forehead.

Javert released a low, satisfied groan but did not bother to open his eyes. Valjean felt himself starting to smile, something helpless and overwhelming swelling inside his chest as he traced the path of a sweat drop with his fingertip, then brushed his thumb against the coarse whiskers. Javert’s mouth was relaxed, his body at ease, resting naked against Valjean’s.

Valjean pressed a kiss to where Javert’s heart beat in his chest, the skin smooth and unmarked where Valjean’s was scarred. Even so, he had left his own mark on Javert. There, on his thigh, the _V_ left by the blade was still faintly visible, a brand just as much as the one he’d borne over his heart for so long.

“You do like this,” Javert murmured, low and satisfied, his arm coming up to rest around Valjean’s hips.

“I do,” Valjean agreed, breathing in rhythm with Javert, their chests rising and falling.

He had never truly allowed himself to imagine what life with Boucard would have been like. Who would he be if he had gone to Bordeaux, rather than walk to the mountain town of Digne? 

He did not doubt that he could have found happiness with Boucard. There would have been no exposition, no brand, none of the shame of those months when he had been Javert’s possession, none of the many times he had taken flight.

He could have been happy, he was certain of that. And yet, a lifetime had passed. Boucard had only known him as a young man dropped into hell, clinging to scant kindness while drowning in despair. That time was long past. He would never be that man again.

And now, despite the brand, the whippings, the chain, he had found Cosette—and he had this. Arms that held him close at night. A man who had been willing to sacrifice his own life to save him.

It was not the happiness he had once dreamed of: that garden Eden behind high walls with flowers and butterflies and Cosette knowing no greater joy than his company.

This was a different happiness. A strange peace, found in the arms of the unlikeliest person.

But it could be enough.

He pressed his cheek against where Javert’s heart was beating, closing his eyes to let sleep carry him away. The last thing he felt was Javert’s hand coming to rest between his legs, those long fingers covering his genitals, the touch warm and comforting.

***

“It’s beautiful, father!” Cosette looked around with obvious delight. “Look, there is woodruff growing beneath the trees—how lovely that will be in spring. And beneath those weeds, I think I see rose bushes.”

The house was situated in the Rue des Trois Bornes—a quiet street, and far from their old home in the Rue Plumet. And yet it was only a short walk to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, which was why Javert must have chosen it.

This time, Valjean had allowed Javert to choose where they were going to live, as an apology for the many times he had sprung his decisions on Javert. And in truth, these days Valjean did not have many needs. A bed, a stove so that Javert would not be cold, walls to shield them from view—and a small garden he could tend to, in the hope that in spring and summer, the butterflies would lure Cosette to come visit him.

“When the season is right, we’ll plant strawberries together.” Cosette eyed an overgrown patch of grass that might be transformed into a vegetable garden. “Won’t you like your own strawberries, M. Javert?”

Javert started, as if he had not paid attention—clearly of the belief that anything to do with the garden would be Valjean’s doing, and not his own.

“I assume it will be cheaper than buying them,” he said reluctantly after a moment.

Valjean found himself smiling once more.

Cosette had employed Pontmercy’s help in stripping away a tangle of ivy from something that had the looks of a small statue. Javert, in turn, was still muttering something about the price of fruit and the insolence of market vendors, but Valjean paid neither of them any attention, a helpless joy filling him instead at the sound of their voices filling the garden.

Nothing had been lost. Cosette was still Pontmercy’s—but he would keep seeing her. She had decided it would be so. Even if Valjean had wanted to keep away, he would not be allowed. She would keep calling him father, and even Pontmercy, who knew the truth of his past, had insisted that Valjean keep visiting Cosette.

Perhaps, after so many years, there could be peace for him. Perhaps this time, at last, they were truly safe, and he would be able to enjoy the years that were left to him here, in their house and their garden, only a short walk away from Cosette.

The house was another small pavilion. On the top floor, there were two bedrooms; on the ground floor, a room that could serve as their study, a modest sitting-room, and a kitchen. Toussaint had gone with Cosette, but did not get on with Nicolette, the Gillenormands’ elderly maid. Instead, Toussaint had agreed to return and do their marketing and cooking every day, spending her remaining time helping a niece who had recently given birth to her fifth child.

“Look, Marius—wings!” Cosette’s laughter filled the air. As Valjean turned his eyes towards them, he saw that the statue she and Pontmercy had begun to uncover had indeed the appearance of an angel.

“A word with you about those strawberries, Fauchelevent,” Javert muttered, grasping his hand.

The grip of his fingers was tight and certain; the hold that of a hand used to grasping a cudgel. Even so, the touch of Javert’s fingers against the bare skin of his wrist made heat rush to Valjean’s face, and without protest, he allowed himself to be pulled around a corner.

And here, in the shadow of the house, facing nothing but the wall and a thicket of brambles that would have to be carefully cut back, Valjean found himself unceremoniously pushed against the wall.

“Do you want the house?” Javert demanded.

Flushed, Valjean searched for words. “Is it… Would it please you to live here?”

Javert’s lips rose, baring his teeth. “It would please me just as much as that apartment I used to have.” He moved a little closer, until Valjean could feel his breath against his lips. “But it would please me to share this house with you.”

“Then it’s decided?” Valjean asked, feeling strangely dizzy.

Javert’s smile widened. “Oh no. I won’t do to you what you did to me. You have a choice, just as much as I do. Do you want this house?”

Swallowing, Valjean tried to think. It was hard to focus; Javert held him pushed against the wall, and although he kept just enough distance to keep from pressing against where even now, Valjean’s body was stirring, his closeness and daring was enough to make it hard to focus.

“I want it,” Valjean said at last, his voice rough. “This house. You. Me. Us, here.”

Javert’s smile widened, and for a moment, Valjean thought that despite the fact that Cosette and Pontmercy were just around the corner, Javert would lean in and kiss him.

“Good,” Javert said instead and then drew back. “Good. Then it’s decided.”

Javert straightened his coat. It took Valjean a moment longer to catch his breath. When he had at last collected himself, Javert looked as if nothing had come to pass—the tension between them given away only by the way his eyes gleamed even now, hungry and dark.

Before they turned the corner, Valjean reached out for Javert’s hand. He could hear Cosette’s voice, calling out for him to come and admire her find.

It was what he had always wanted: Cosette happy; Cosette at play in his garden.

Even so, he lingered. He took hold of Javert’s hand, intertwining their fingers. Slowly, deliberately, he raised it to his cheek, leaning into the touch. Then he brushed a kiss against Javert’s rough knuckles before releasing him at last.

“I’m coming,” he called out to Cosette.

The corners of his mouth turned up as he looked at Javert. Then, at last, they turned the corner together, stepping back into the sunlight that bathed their garden in gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This monster of a story ate two years of my life. I didn't think it would take so many words to get them there, but I just couldn't resist the chance to take them all the way to Paris and the barricades and see them actually grow until they arrived in a place where they could find happiness. Thank you to everyone who stuck with this through the entire 260k. <3


End file.
